-f~2 

W 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 


THE 
PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 


s, 

IRVING  BACHELLER 

^Author  of 

THE  LIGHT  IN   THE  CLEARING 
A  MAN  FOR  THE  ACKS,  Etc. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1920 
AMERICAN  NATIONAL  RED  CROSS 


COPYRIGHT  1920 
IRVING  BACHELLER 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PRCSS  or 

BRAUNV  ORTH  &  CO. 

BOOK  MANUfACTUBCSB 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    WHICH  INTRODUCES  THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE 

BIRDS        1 

II    THE  FOUNDING  OF  THE  PHYLLISTINES     .     .      18 

III  WHICH  TELLS  OF  THE  COMPLAINING  COIN 

AND  THE  MAN  WHO  LOST  His  SELF    .     .      68 

IV  IN  WHICH   MR.  ISRAEL  SNEED  AND  OTHER 

WTORKING    MEN    RECEIVE   A   LESSON    IN 
TRUE  DEMOCRACY 91 

V    IN    WHICH    J.    PATTERSON    BING    BUYS   A 

NECKLACE  OF  PEARLS 103 

VI    IN    WHICH    HIRAM    BLENKINSOP    HAS    A 

NUMBER  OF  ADVENTURES 117 

VII    IN  WHICH  HIGH  VOLTAGE  DEVELOPS  IN  THE 

CONVERSATION 137 

VIII    IN  WHICH  JUDGE  CROOKER  DELIVERS  A  FEW 

OPINIONS 146 

IX  WHICH  TELLS  OF  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  DAY 
IN  THE  LITTLE  COTTAGE  OF  THE  WIDOW 
MORAN  163 


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THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

CHAPTER  ONE 

WHICH  INTBODUCES  THE  SHEPHERD  OF 
THE  BIRDS 


day  that  Henry  Smix  met  and  em- 
braced  Gasoline  Power  and  went  np 
Main  Street  hand  in  hand  with  it  is  not 
yet  forgotten.  It  was  a  hasty  marriage, 
so  to  speak,  and  the  results  of  it  were 
truly  deplorable.  Their  little  journey  pro 
duced  an  effect  on  the  nerves  and  the  re 
mote  future  history  of  Bingville.  They 
rushed  at  a  group  of  citizens  who  were 
watching  them,  scattered  it  hither  and 
thither,  broke  down  a  section  of  Mrs. 
Risley's  picket  fence  and  ran  over  a  small 
boy.  At  the  end  of  their  brief  misalli- 
1 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

ance,  Gasoline  Power  seemed  to  express 
its  opinion  of  Mr.  Smix  by  hurling  him 
against  a  telegraph  pole  and  running  wild 
in  the  park  until  it  cooled  its  passion  in 
the  fountain  pool.  In  the  language  of 
Hiram  Blenkinsop,  the  place  was  badly 
"smixed  up."  Yet  Mr.  Smix  was  the  ob 
ject  of  unmerited  criticism.  He  was  like 
many  other  men  in  that  quiet  village — 
slow,  deliberate,  harmless  and  good- 
natured.  The  action  of  his  intellect  was 
not  at  all  like  that  of  a  gasoline  engine. 
Between  the  swiftness  of  the  one  and  the 
slowness  of  the  other,  there  was  a  wide 
zone  full  of  possibilities.  The  engine  had 
accomplished  many  things  while  Mr. 
Smix's  intellect  was  getting  ready  to  begin 
to  act. 

In  speaking  of  this  adventure,  Hiram 
Blenkinsop  made  a  wise  remark:  "My 
married  life  learnt  me  one  thing,"  said 
he.  "If  you  are  thinldn'  of  hitchin'  up  a 
wild  horse  with  a  tame  one,  be  careful  that 
2 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  tame  one  is  the  stoutest  or  it  will  do 
him  no  good." 

The  event  had  its  tragic  side  and  what 
ever  Hiram  Blenkinsop  and  other  citizens 
of  questionable  taste  may  have  said  of  it, 
the  historian  has  no  intention  of  treating 
it  lightly.  Mr.  Smix  and  his  neighbor's 
fence  could  be  repaired  but  not  the  small 
boy — Robert  Emmet  Moran,  six  years  old, 
the  son  of  the  Widow  Moran  who  took  in 
washing.  He  was  in  the  nature  of  a  sacri 
fice  to  the  new  god.  He  became  a  be 
loved  cripple,  known  as  the  Shepherd  of 
the  Birds  and  altogether  the  most  cheerful 
person  in  the  village.  His  world  was  a 
little  room  on  the  second  floor  of  his 
mother's  cottage  overlooking  the  big 
flower  garden  of  Judge  Crooker  —  his 
father  having  been  the  gardener  and 
coachman  of  the  Judge.  There  were  in 
this  room  an  old  pine  bureau,  a  four  post 
bedstead,  an  armchair  by  the  window,  a 
small  round  nickel  clock,  that  sat  on  the 
3 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

bureau,  a  rubber  tree  and  a  very  talkative 
little  old  tin  soldier  of  the  name  of  Bloggs 
who  stood  erect  on  a  shelf  with  a  gnn  in 
his  hand  and  was  always  looking  out  of  the 
the  window.  The  day  of  the  tin  soldier's 
arrival  the  boy  had  named  him  Mr.  Bloggs 
and  discovered  his  unusual  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart.  He  was  a  wise  old 
soldier,  it  would  seem,  for  he  had  some 
sort  of  answer  for  each  of  the  many  ques 
tions  of  Bob  Moran.  Indeed,  as  Bob  knew, 
he  had  seen  and  suffered  much,  having 
traveled  to  Europe  and  back  with  the 
Judge's  family  and  been  sunk  for  a  year 
in  a  frog  pond  and  been  dropped  in  a  jug 
of  molasses,  but  through  it  all  had  kept  his 
look  of  inextinguishable  courage.  The 
lonely  lad  talked,  now  and  then,  with  the 
round,  nickel  clock  or  the  rubber-tree  or 
the  pine  bureau,  but  mostly  gave  his  confi 
dence  to  the  wise  and  genial  Mr.  Bloggs. 
When  the  spring  arrived  the  garden,  with 
its  birds  and  flowers,  became  a  source  of 
4 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

joy  and  companionship  for  the  little  lad. 
Sitting  by  the  open  window,  he  used  to  talk 
to  Pat  Crowley,  who  was  getting  the  ground 
ready  for  sowing.  Later  the  slow  proces 
sion  of  the  flowers  passed  under  the  boy's 
window  and  greeted  him  with  its  fragrance 
and  color. 

But  his  most  intimate  friends  were  the 
birds.  Robins,  in  the  elm  tree  just  beyond 
the  window,  woke  him  every  summer 
morning.  When  he  made  his  way  to  the 
casement,  with  the  aid  of  two  ropes  which 
spanned  his  room,  they  came  to  him  light 
ing  on  his  wrists  and  hands  and  clamor 
ing  for  the  seeds  and  crumbs  which  he 
was  wont  to  feed  them.  Indeed,  little  Bob 
Moran  soon  learned  the  pretty  lingo  of 
every  feathered  tribe  that  camped  in  the 
garden.  He  could  sound  the  pan  pipe  of 
the  robin,  the  fairy  flute  of  the  oriole,  the 
noisy  guitar  of  the  bobolink  and  the  little 
piccolo  of  the  song  sparrow.  Many  of 
these  dear  friends  of  his  came  into  the 
5 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

room  and  explored  the  rubber  tree  and 
sang  in  its  branches.  A  colony  of  barn 
swallows  lived  under  the  eaves  of  the  old 
weathered  shed  on  the  far  side  of  the  gar 
den.  There  were  many  windows,  each  with  a 
saucy  head  looking  out  of  it.  Suddenly  half 
a  dozen  of  these  merry  people  would  rush 
into  the  air  and  fill  it  with  their  frolic. 
They  were  like  a  lot  of  laughing  schoolboys 
skating  over  invisible  hills  and  hollows. 

With  a  pair  of  field-glasses,  which  Mrs. 
Crooker  had  loaned  to  him,  Bob  Moran 
had  learned  the  nest  habits  of  the  whole 
summer  colony  in  that  wonderful  garden. 
All  day  he  sat  by  the  open  window  with 
his  work,  an  air  gun  at  his  side.  The 
robins  would  shout  a  warning  to  Bob  when 
a  cat  strolled  into  that  little  paradise. 
Then  he  would  drop  his  brushes,  seize  his 
gun  and  presently  its  missile  would  go 
whizzing  through  the  air,  straight  against 
the  side  of  the  cat,  who,  feeling  the  sting 
of  it,  would  bound  through  the  flower  beds 
6 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

and  leap  over  the  fence  to  avoid  further 
punishment.  Bob  had  also  made  an  elec 
tric  search-light  out  of  his  father 's  old 
hunting  jack  and,  when  those  red-breasted 
policemen  sounded  their  alarm  at  night, 
he  was  out  of  bed  in  a  jiffy  and  sweeping 
the  tree  tops  with  a  broom  of  light,  the 
jack  on  his  forehead.  If  he  discovered  a 
pair  of  eyes,  the  stinging  missiles  flew  to 
ward  them  in  the  light  stream  until  the 
intruder  was  dislodged.  Indeed,  he  was 
like  a  shepherd  of  old,  keeping  the  wolves 
from  his  flock.  It  was  the  parish  priest  who 
first  called  him  the  Shepherd  of  the  Birds. 
Just  opposite  his  window  was  the  stub 
of  an  old  pine  partly  covered  with  Vir 
ginia  creeper.  Near  the  top  of  it  was  a 
round  hole  and  beyond  it  a  small  cavern 
which  held  the  nest  of  a  pair  of  flickers. 
Sometimes  the  female  sat  with  her  gray 
head  protruding  from  this  tiny  oriel  win 
dow  of  hers  looking  across  at  Bob.  Pat 
Crowley  was  in  the  habit  of  calling  this 
7 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

garden  "Moran  City,"  wherein  the  stnb 
was  known  as  Woodpecker  Tower  and  the 
flower  bordered  path  as  Fifth  Avenue 
while  the  widow's  cottage  was  always  re 
ferred  to  as  City  Hall  and  the  weathered 
shed  as  the  tenement  district. 

What  a  theater  of  unpremeditated  art 
was  this  beautiful,  big  garden  of  the  Judge ! 
There  were  those  who  felt  sorry  for  Bob 
Moran  but  his  life  was  fuller  and  happier 
than  theirs.  It  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the 
world's  travelers  saw  more  of  its  beauty 
than  he. 

He  had  sugared  the  window-sill  so  that 
he  always  had  company — bees  and  wasps 
and  butterflies.  The  latter  had  interested 
him  since  the  Judge  had  called  them 
"stray  thoughts  of  God."  Their  white, 
yellow  and  blue  wings  were  always  flash 
ing  in  the  warm  sunlit  spaces  of  the 
garden.  He  loved  the  chorus  of  an  August 
night  and  often  sat  by  his  window  listen- 
8 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

ing  to  the  songs  of  the  tree  crickets  and 
katydids  and  seeing  the  innumerable  fire 
fly  lanterns  flashing  among  the  flowers. 

His  work  was  painting  scenes  in  the 
garden,  especially  bird  tricks  and  atti 
tudes.  For  this,  he  was  indebted  to  Susan 
Baker,  who  had  given  him  paints  and 
brushes  and  taught  him  how  to  use  them, 
and  to  an  unusual  aptitude  for  drawing. 

One  day  Mrs.  Baker  brought  her  daugh 
ter  Pauline  with  her — a  pretty  blue-eyed 
girl  with  curly  blonde  hair,  four  years 
older  than  Bob,  who  was  thirteen  when  his 
painting  began.  The  Shepherd  looked  at 
her  with  an  exclamation  of  delight;  until 
then  he  had  never  seen  a  beautiful  young 
maiden.  Homely,  ill-clad  daughters  of 
the  working  folk  had  come  to  his  room 
with  field  flowers  now  and  then,  but  no 
one  like  Pauline.  He  felt  her  hair  and 
looked  wistfully  into  her  face  and  said 
that  she  was  like  pink  and  white  and  yel 
low  roses.  She  was  a  discovery — a  new 
9 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

kind  of  human  being.  Often  lie  thought 
of  her  as  he  sat  looking  out  of  the  window 
and  often  he  dreamed  of  her  at  night. 

The  little  Shepherd  of  the  Birds  was  not 
quite  a  boy.  He  was  a  spirit  untouched 
by  any  evil  thought,  unbroken  to  lures  and 
thorny  ways.  He  still  had  the  heart  of 
childhood  and  saw  only  the  beauty  of  the 
world.  He  was  like  the  flowers  and  birds 
of  the  garden,  strangely  fair  and  winsome, 
with  silken,  dark  hair  curling  about  his 
brows.  He  had  large,  clear,  brown  eyes, 
a  mouth  delicate  as  a  girl's  and  teeth  very 
white  and  shapely.  The  Bakers  had  lifted 
the  boundaries  of  his  life  and  extended  his 
vision.  He  found  a  new  joy  in  studying 
flower  forms  and  in  imitating  their  colors 
on  canvas. 

Now,  indeed,  there  was  not  a  happier 
lad  in  the  village  than  this  young  prisoner 
in  one  of  the  two  upper  bedrooms  in  the 
small  cottage  of  the  Widow  Moran.  True, 
he  had  moments  of  longing  for  his  lost 
10 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

freedom  when  he  heard  the  shouts  of  the 
boys  in  the  street  and  their  feet  hurrying 
by  on  the  sidewalk.  The  steadfast  and 
courageous  Mr.  Bloggs  had  said:  "I  guess 
we  have  just  as  much  fun  as  they  do,  after 
all.  Look  at  them  roses." 

One  evening,  as  his  mother  sat  reading 
an  old  love  tale  to  the  boy,  he  stopped  her. 

" Mother,"  he  said,  "I  love  Pauline. 
Do  you  think  it  would  be  all  right  for  me 
to  tell  her?" 

"Never  a  word,"  said  the  good  woman. 
"Ye  see  it's  this  way,  my  little  son,  ye 're 
like  a  priest  an'  it's  not  the  right  thing 
for  a  priest." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  priest,"  said  he 
impatiently. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  laddie  boy!  It's  for 
God  to  say  an'  for  us  to  obey,"  she 
answered. 

When  the  widow  had  gone  to  her  room 
for  the  night  and  Bob  was  thinking  it  over, 
Mr.  Bloggs  remarked  that  in  his  opinion 
11 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

they  should  keep  up  their  courage  for 
it  was  a  very  grand  thing  to  be  a  priest 
after  all. 

Winters  he  spent  deep  in  books  out  of 
Judge  Crooker's  library  and  tending  his 
potted  plants  and  painting  them  and  the 
thick  blanket  of  snow  in  the  garden. 
Among  the  happiest  moments  of  his  life 
were  those  that  followed  his  mother's  re 
turn  from  the  post-office  with  The  Bing- 
ville  Sentinel.  Then,  as  the  widow  was 
wont  to  say,  he  was  like  a  dog  with  a  bone. 
To  him,  Bingville  was  like  Eome  in  the 
ancient  world  or  London  in  the  British 
Empire.  All  roads  led  to  Bingville.  The 
Sentinel  was  in  the  nature  of  a  habit.  One 
issue  was  like  unto  another — as  like  as 
"two  chaws  off  the  same  plug  of  tobaccer," 
a  citizen  had  once  said.  Its  editor  per 
formed  his  jokes  with  a  wink  and  a  nudge 
as  if  he  were  saying,  "I  will  now  touch 
the  light  guitar."  Anything  important  in 
12 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  Sentinel  would  have  been  as  misplaced 
as  a  camion  in  a  meeting-house.  Every 
week  it  caught  the  toy  balloons  of  gossip, 
the  thistledown  events  which  were  float 
ing  in  the  still  air  of  Bingville.  The 
Sentinel  was  a  dissipation  as  enjoyable 
and  as  inexplicable  as  tea.  It  contained 
portraits  of  leading  citizens,  accounts  of 
sundry  goings  and  comings,  and  teas  and 
parties  and  student  frolics. 

To  the  little  Shepherd,  Bingville  was  the 
capital  of  the  world  and  Mr.  J.  Patterson 
Bing,  the  first  citizen  of  Bingville,  who  em 
ployed  eleven  hundred  men  and  had  four 
automobiles,  was  a  gigantic  figure  whose 
shadow  stretched  across  the  earth.  There 
were  two  people  much  in  his  thoughts  and 
dreams  and  conversation — Pauline  Baker 
and  J.  Patterson  Bing.  Often  there  were 
articles  in  the  Sentinel  regarding  the  great 
enterprises  of  Mr.  Bing  and  the  social 
successes  of  the  Bing  family  in  the 
metropolis.  These  he  read  with  hungry 
13 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

interest.  His  favorite  heroes  were  George 
Washington,  St.  Francis  and  J.  Patterson 
Bing.  As  between  the  three  he  would, 
secretly,  have  voted  for  Mr.  Bing.  Indeed, 
he  and  his  friends  and  intimates — Mr. 
Bloggs  and  the  rubber  tree  and  the  little 
pine  bureau  and  the  round  nickel  clock — 
had  all  voted  for  Mr.  Bing.  But  he  had 
never  seen  the  great  man. 

Mr.  Bing  sent  Mrs.  Moran  a  check  every 
Christmas  and,  now  and  then,  some  little 
gift  to  Bob,  but  his  charities  were  strictly 
impersonal.  He  used  to  say  that  while  he 
was  glad  to  help  the  poor  and  the  sick, 
he  hadn't  time  to  call  on  them.  Once, 
Mrs.  Bing  promised  the  widow  that  she 
and  her  husband  would  go  to  see  Bob  on 
Christmas  Day.  The  little  Shepherd  asked 
his  mother  to  hang  his  best  pictures  on 
the  walls  and  to  decorate  them  with  sprigs 
of  cedar.  He  put  on  his  starched  shirt 
and  collar  and  silk  tie  and  a  new  black 
coat  which  his  mother  had  given  him. 
14 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

The  Christinas  bells  never  rang  so  mer 
rily. 

The  great  white  bird  in  the  Congrega 
tional  Church  tower — that  being  Bob's 
thought  of  it — flew  out  across  the  valley 
with  its  tidings  of  good  will. 

To  the  little  Shepherd  it  seemed  to  say: 
'  '  Bing — Bing — Bing — Bing — Bing — BingI 
Com-ing,  Com-ing,  Com-ing!!" 

Many  of  the  friends  of  his  mother — 
mostly  poor  folk  of  the  parish  who  worked 
in  the  mill — came  with  simple  gifts  and 
happy  greetings.  There  were  those  among 
them  who  thought  it  a  blessing  to  look 
upon  the  sweet  face  of  Bob  and  to  hear 
his  merry  laughter  over  some  playful  bit 
of  gossip  and  Judge  Crooker  said  that 
they  were  quite  right  about  it.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  J.  Patterson  Bing  were  never  to  feel 
this  blessing.  The  Shepherd  of  the  Birds 
waited  in  vain  for  them  that  Christmas 
Day.  Mrs.  Bing  sent  a  letter  of  kindly 
15 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

greeting  and  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece 
and  explained  that  her  husband  was  not 
feeling  "quite  up  to  the  mark,"  which  was 
true. 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  said  decisively, 
when  Mrs.  Bing  brought  the  matter  up  as 
he  was  smoking  in  the  library  an  hour  or 
so  after  dinner.  "No  cripples  and  misery 
in  mine  at  present,  thank  you!  I  wouldn't 
'get  over  it  for  a  week.  Just  send  them 
our  best  wishes  and  a  twenty-dollar  gold 
piece." 

There  were  tears  in  the  Shepherd's  eyes 
when  his  mother  helped  him  into  his  night 
clothes  that  evening. 

"I  hate  that  twenty-dollar  gold  piece  I" 
he  exclaimed. 

"Laddie  boy!  Why  should  ye  be  sayin' 
that?" 

The  shiny  piece  of  metal  was  lying  on 
the  window-sill.  She  took  it  in  her  hand. 

"It's  as  cold  as  a  snow-bank!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

16 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  don't  want  to  touch  it  I  I'm  shiver 
ing  now,"  said  the  Shepherd.  "Put  it 
away  in  the  drawer.  It  makes  me  sick. 
It  cheated  me  out  of  seeing  Mr.  Bing." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  FOUNDING  OP  THE  PHTLLISTINES 

ONE  little  word  largely  accounted  for 
the  success  of  J.  Patterson  Bing.  It 
was  the  word  "no."  It  saved  him  in  mo 
ments  which  would  have  been  full  of  peril 
for  other  men.  He  had  never  made  a  bad 
investment  because  he  knew  how  and 
when  to  say  "no."  It  fell  from  his  lips 
so  sharply  and  decisively  that  he  lost  little 
time  in  the  consideration  of  doubtful  en 
terprises.  Sometimes  it  fell  heavily  and 
left  a  wound,  for  which  Mr.  Bing  thought 
himself  in  no  way  responsible.  There  was 
really  a  lot  of  good-will  in  him.  He  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  any  one. 

"Time  is  a  thing  of  great  value  and 
what's    the   use    of   wasting   it   in   idle 
palaver?"  he  used  to  say. 
18 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

One  day,  Hiram  Blenkinsop,  who  was 
just  recovering  from  a  spree,  met  Mr.  Bing 
at  the  corner  of  Main  and  School  Streets 
and  asked  him  for  the  loan  of  a  dollar. 

"No  sir!"  said  Mr.  J.  Patterson  Bing, 
and  the  words  sounded  like  two  whacks 
of  a  hammer  on  a  nail.  "No  sir,"  he  re 
peated,  the  second  whack  being  now  the 
more  emphatic.  "I  don't  lend  money  to 
people  who  make  a  bad  use  of  it." 

"Can  you  give  me  work?"  asked  the 
unfortunate  drunkard. 

"No!  But  if  you  were  a  hired  girl,  I'd 
consider  the  matter." 

Some  people  who  overheard  the  words 
laughed  loudly.  Poor  Blenkinsop  made  no 
reply  but  he  considered  the  words  an  in 
sult  to  his  manhood  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  hadn't  any  manhood  to  speak  of. 
At  least,  there  was  not  enough  of  it  to 
stand  up  and  be  insulted — that  is  sure. 
After  that  he  was  always  racking  his 
brain  for  something  mean  to  say  about 
19 


THE  PRODIGAL!  VILLAGE 


JL 


J.  Patterson  Bing.  Bing  was  a  cold 
blooded  fish.  Bing  was  a  scrimper  and  a 
grinder.  If  the  truth  were  known  about 
Bing  he  wouldn't  be  holding  his  head  so 
high.  Judas  Iscariot  and  J.  Patterson  Bing 
were  off  the  same  bush.  These  were  some 
of  the  things  that  Blenkinsop  scattered 
abroad  and  they  were,  to  say  the  least  of 
them,  extremely  unjust.  Mr.  Bing's  inno 
cent  remark  touching  Mr.  Blenkinsop 's 
misfortune  in  not  being  a  hired  girl,  arose 
naturally  out  of  social  conditions  in  the 
village.  Furthermore,  it  is  quite  likely 
that  every  one  in  Bingville,  including  those 
impersonal  creatures  known  as  Law  and 
Order,  would  have  been  much  happier  if 
some  magician  could  have  turned  Mr. 
Blenkinsop  into  a  hired  girl  and  have  made 
him  a  life  member  of  "the  Dish  Water 
Aristocracy,"  as  Judge  Crooker  was  wont 
to  call  it. 

The  community  of  Bingville  was  noted 
for  its  simplicity  and  good  sense.     Ser- 
20 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

vants  were  unknown  in  this  village  of 
three  thousand  people.  It  had  lawyers  and 
doctors  and  professors  and  merchants — 
some  of  whom  were  deservedly  well  known 
— and  J.  Patterson  Bing,  the  owner  of  the 
pulp  mill,  celebrated  for  his  riches;  but 
one  could  almost  say  that  its  most  sought 
for  and  popular  folk  were  its  hired  girls. 
They  were  few  and  sniffy.  They  exercised 
care  and  discretion  in  the  choice  of  their 
employers.  They  regulated  the  diet  of  the 
said  employers  and  the  frequency  and 
quality  of  their  entertainments.  If  it 
could  be  said  that  there  was  an  aristocracy 
in  the  place  they  were  it.  First,  among 
the  Who's  Who  of  Bingville,  were  the 
Gilligan  sisters  who  worked  in  the  big 
brick  house  of  Judge  Crooker;  another  was 
Mrs.  Pat  Collins,  seventy-two  years  of  age, 
who  presided  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Kev- 
erend  Otis  Singleton;  the  two  others  were 
Susan  Crowder,  a  woman  of  sixty,  and  a 
red-headed  girl  .with  one  eye,  of  the  name 
21 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

of  Featherstraw,  both  of  whom  served  the 
opulent  Bings.  Some  of  these  hired  girls 
ate  with  the  family — save  on  special  oc 
casions  when  city  folk  were  present.  Mrs. 
Collins  and  the  Gilligans  seemed  to  enjoy 
this  privilege  but  Susan  Crowder,  having 
had  an  ancestor  who  had  fought  in  the 
Revolutionary  War,  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
Martha  Featherstraw  preferred  to  eat  in 
the  kitchen.  Indeed  there  was  some  war 
rant  for  this  remarkable  situation.  The 
Gilligan  sisters  had  a  brother  who  was 
a  Magistrate  in  a  large  city  and  Mrs.  Col 
lins  had  a  son  who  was  a  successful  and 
popular  butcher  in  the  growing  city  of 
Hazelmead. 

That  part  of  the  village  known  as  Irish- 
town  and  a  settlement  of  Poles  and  Italians 
furnished  the  man  help  in  the  mill,  and 
its  sons  were  also  seen  more  or  less  in  the 
fields  and  gardens.  Ambition  and  Educa 
tion  had  been  working  in  the  minds  of 
the  young  in  and  about  Bingville  for  two 
22 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

generations.  The  sons  and  daughters  of 
farmers  and  ditch-diggers  had  read  Virgil 
and  Horace  and  plodded  into  the  mysteries 
of  higher  mathematics.  The  best  of  them 
had  gone  into  learned  professions;  others 
had  enlisted  in  the  business  of  great  cities ; 
still  others  had  gone  in  for  teaching  or 
stenography. 

Their  success  had  wrought  a  curious  de 
vastation  in  the  village  and  countryside. 
The  young  moved  out  heading  for  the  paths 
of  glory.  Many  a  sturdy,  stupid  person 
who  might  have  made  an  excellent  plumber, 
or  carpenter,  or  farmer,  or  cook,  armed 
with  a  university  degree  and  a  sense  of 
superiority,  had  gone  forth  in  quest  of 
fame  and  fortune  prepared  for  nothing  in 
particular  and  achieving  firm  possession 
of  it.  Somehow  the  elective  system  had 
enabled  them  "to  get  by"  in  a  state  of 
mind  that  resembled  the  Mojave  Desert. 
If  they  did  not  care  for  Latin  or  mathe 
matics  they  could  take  a  course  in 
23 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

ology  or  in  The  Taming  of  the  Wild 
Chickadee  or  in  some  such  easy  skating. 
Bingville  was  like  many  places.  The  young 
had  fled  from  the  irksome  tasks  which  had 
roughened  the  hands  and  bent  the  backs  of 
their  parents.  That,  briefly,  accounts  for  the 
fewness  and  the  sniffiness  above  referred  to. 
Early  in  1917,  the  village  was  shaken  by 
alarming  and  astonishing  news.  True, 
the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania  and  our  own 
enlistment  in  the  World  War  and  the 
German  successes  on  the  Russian  frontier 
had,  in  a  way,  prepared  the  heart  and  in 
tellect  of  Bingville  for  shocking  events. 
Still,  these  disasters  had  been  remote. 
The  fact  that  the  Gilligan  sisters  had  left 
the  Crookers  and  accepted  an  offer  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month  from 
the  wealthy  Nixons  of  Hazelmead  was  an 
event  close  to  the  footlights,  so  to  speak. 
It  caused  the  news  of  battles  to  take  its 
rightful  place  in  the  distant  background. 
Men  talked  of  this  event  in  stores  and  on 
24 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

street  corners;  it  was  the  subject  of  con 
versation  in  sewing  circles  and  the  Philo- 
mathian  Literary  Club.  That  day,  the 
Bings  whispered  about  it  at  the  dinner 
table  between  courses  until  Susan  Crowder 
sent  in  a  summons  by  Martha  Feather- 
straw  with  the  apple  pie.  She  would  be 
glad  to  see  Mrs.  J.  Patterson  Bing  in  the 
kitchen  immediately  after  dinner.  There 
was  a  moment  of  silence  in  the  midst  of 
which  Mr.  Bing  winked  knowingly  at  his 
wife,  who  turned  pale  as  she  put  down 
her  pie  fork  with  a  look  of  determination 
and  rose  and  went  into  the  kitchen.  Mrs. 
Crowder  regretted  that  she  and  Martha 
would  have  to  look  for  another  family  un 
less  their  wages  were  raised  from  one 
hundred  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a 
month. 

"But,  Susan,  we  all  made  an  agreement 
for  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Bing. 

Mrs.  Crowder  was  sorry  but  she  and 
Martha  could  not  make  out  on  the  wages 
25 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

they  were  getting — everything  cost  so 
much.  If  Mary  Gilligan,  who  couldn't 
cook,  was  worth  a  hundred  dollars  a  month 
Mrs.  Crowder  considered  herself  cheap  at 
twice  that  figure. 

Mrs.  Bing,  in  her  anger,  was  inclined 
to  revolt,  but  Mr.  Bing  settled  the  matter 
by  submitting  to  the  tyranny  of  Susan. 
.With  Phyllis  and  three  of  her  young 
friends  coming  from  school  and  a  party  in 
prospect,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

Maggie  Collins,  who  was  too  old  and  too 
firmly  rooted  in  the  village  to  leave  it,  was 
satisfied  with  a  raise  of  ten  dollars  a 
month.  Even  then  she  received  a  third 
of  the  minister's  salary.  "His  wife  being 
a  swell  leddy  who  had  no  time  for  wurruk, 
sure  the  boy  was  no  sooner  married  than 
he  yelled  for  help,"  as  Maggie  was  wont 
to  say. 

•All  this  had  a  decided  effect  on  the 
economic  life  of  the  village.  Indeed, 
26 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Hiram  Blenkinsop,  the  village  drunkard, 
who  attended  to  the  lawns  and  gardens 
for  a  number  of  people,  demanded  an  in 
crease  of  a  dollar  a  day  in  his  wages  on 
account  of  the  high  cost  of  living,  although 
one  would  say  that  its  effect  upon  him 
could  not  have  been  serious.  For  years 
the  historic  figure  of  Blenkinsop  had  been 
the  destination  and  repository  of  the 
cast-off  clothing  and  the  worn  and  shape 
less  shoes  of  the  leading  citizens.  For  a 
decade,  the  venerable  derby  hat,  which 
once  belonged  to  Judge  Crooker,  had  sur 
vived  all  the  incidents  of  his  adventurous 
career.  He  was,  indeed,  as  replete  with 
suggestive  memories  as  the  graveyard  to 
which  he  was  wont  to  repair  for  rest  and 
recuperation  in  summer  weather.  There, 
in  the  shade  of  a  locust  tree  hard  by  the 
wall,  he  was  often  discovered  with  his 
faithful  dog  Christmas — a  yellow,  mongrel, 
good-natured  cur — lying  beside  him,  and 
the  historic  derby  hat  in  his  hand.  He 
27 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

had  a  persevering  pride  in  that  hat.  Mr. 
Blenkinsop  showed  a  surprising  and  com 
mendable  industry  under  the  stimulation 
of  increased  pay.  He  worked  hard  for  a 
month,  then  celebrated  his  prosperity  with 
a  night  of  such  noisy,  riotous  joy  that  he 
landed  in  the  lockup  with  a  black  eye  and 
a  broken  nose  and  an  empty  pocket.  As 
usual,  the  dog  Christmas  went  with  him. 

When  there  was  a  loud  yell  in  the  streets 
at  night  Judge  Crooker  used  to  say,  "It's 
Hiram  again!  The  poor  fellow  is  out  a- 
Hiraming. ' ' 

William  Snodgrass,  the  carpenter,  gave 
much  thought  and  reflection  to  the  good 
fortune  of  the  Gilligan  girls.  If  a  hired 
girl  could  earn  twenty-five  dollars  a  week 
and  her  board,  a  skilled  mechanic  who  had 
to  board  himself  ought  to  earn  at  least 
fifty.  So  he  put  up  his  prices.  Israel 
Sneed,  the  plumber,  raised  his  scale  to  cor 
respond  with  that  of  the  carpenter.  The 
prices  of  the  butcher  and  grocer  kept  pace 
28 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

with  the  rise  of  wages.  A  period  of  un 
exampled  prosperity  set  in. 

Some  time  before,  the  Old  Spirit  of 
Bingville  had  received  notice  that  its  ser 
vices  would  no  longer  be  required.  It 
had  been  an  industrious  and  faithful  Old 
Spirit.  The  new  generation  did  not  in 
tend  to  be  hard  on  it.  They  were  willing 
to  give  it  a  comfortable  home  as  long  as 
it  lived.  Its  home  was  to  be  a  beautiful 
and  venerable  asylum  called  The  Past. 
There  it  was  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sit  around  and  weep  and  talk  of  bygone 
days.  The  Old  Spirit  rebelled.  It  refused 
to  abandon  its  appointed  tasks. 

The  notice  had  been  given  soon  after  the 
new  theater  was  opened  in  the  Sneed  Block, 
and  the  endless  flood  of  moving  lights  and 
shadows  began  to  fall  on  its  screen.  The 
low-born,  purblind  intellects  of  Bohemian 
New  York  began  to  pour  their  lewd  fancies 
into  this  great  stream  that  flowed  through 
every  city,  town  and  village  in  the  land. 
29 


PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

They  had  no  more  compunction  in  the 
matter  than  a  rattlesnake  when  it  swal 
lows  a  rabbit.  To  them,  there  were  only 
two  great,  bare  facts  in  life — male  and  fe 
male.  The  males,  in  their  vulgar  parlance, 
were  either  "wise  guys"  or  " suckers "! 
The  females  were  all  "my  dears." 

Much  of  this  mental  sewage  smelled  to 
heaven.  But  it  paid.  It  was  cheap  and 
entertaining.  It  relieved  the  tedium  of 
small-town  life. 

Judge  Crooker  was  in  the  little  theater 
the  evening  that  the  Old  Spirit  of  Bing- 
ville  received  notice  to  quit.  The  sons  and 
daughters  and  even  the  young  children  of 
the  best  families  in  the  village  were  there. 
Scenes  from  the  shady  side  of  the  great 
cities,  bar-room  adventures  with  pugilists 
and  porcelain-faced  women,  the  thin-ice 
skating  of  illicit  love  succeeded  one  another 
on  the  screen.  The  tender  souls  of  the 
young  received  the  impression  that  life  in 
30 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  great  world  was  mostly  drunkenness, 
violence,  lust,  and  Great  White  Wayward 
ness  of  one  kind  or  another. 

Judge  Crooker  shook  his  head  and  his 
fist  as  he  went  out  and  expressed  his  view 
to  Phyllis  and  her  mother  in  the  lobby. 
Going  home,  they  called  him  an  old  prude. 
The  knowledge  that  every  night  this  false 
instruction  was  going  on  in  the  Sneed 
Block  filled  the  good  man  with  sorrow  and 
apprehension.  He  complained  to  Mr.  Leak, 
the  manager,  who  said  that  he  would  like 
to  give  clean  shows,  but  that  he  had  to 
take  what  was  sent  him. 

Soon  a  curious  thing  happened  to  the 
family  of  Mr.  J.  Patterson  Bing.  It  ac 
quired  a  new  god — one  that  began,  as  the 
reader  will  have  observed,  with  a  small 
"g."  He  was  a  boneless,  India-rubber, 
obedient  little  god.  For  years  the  need 
of  one  like  that  had  been  growing  in  the 
Bing  family.  Since  he  had  become  a  mil 
lionaire,  Mr.  Bing  had  found  it  necessary 
31 


[THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

to  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  and  consider 
able  money  in  New  York.  Certain  of  his 
banker  friends  in  the  metropolis  had  in 
troduced  him  to  the  joys  of  the  Great 
White  Way  and  the  card  room  of  the 
Golden  Age  Club.  Always  he  had  been  ill 
and  disgruntled  for  a  week  after  his  re 
turn  to  the  homely  realities  of  Bingville. 
The  shrewd  intuitions  of  Mrs.  Bing 
alarmed  her.  So  Phyllis  and  John  were 
packed  off  to  private  schools  so  that  the 
'good  woman  would  be  free  to  look  after 
the  imperiled  welfare  of  the  lamb  of  her 
flock — the  great  J.  Patterson.  She  was 
really  worried  about  him.  After  that,  she 
always  went  with  him  to  the  city.  She  was 
pleased  and  delighted  with  the  luxury  of 
the  Waldorf-Astoria,  the  costumes,  the 
dinner  parties,  the  theaters,  the  suppers, 
the  cabaret  shows.  The  latter  shocked  her 
a  little  at  first. 


32 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

They  went  out  to  a  great  country  house, 
near  the  city,  to  spend  a  week-end.  There 
was  a  dinner  party  on  Saturday  night. 
One  of  the  ladies  got  very  tipsy  and  was 
taken  up-stairs.  The  others  repaired  to 
the  music  room  to  drink  their  coffee  and 
smoke.  Mrs.  Bing  tried  a  cigarette  and 
got  along  with  it  very  well.  Then  there 
was  an  hour  of  heart  to  heart,  central 
European  dancing  while  the  older  men  sat 
down  for  a  night  of  bridge  in  the  library. 
Sunday  morning,  the  young  people  rode  to 
hounds  across  country  while  the  bridge 
party  continued  its  session  in  the  library. 
It  was  not  exactly  a  restful  week-end.  J. 
Patterson  and  his  wife  went  to  bed,  as  soon 
as  their  grips  were  unpacked,  on  their  re 
turn  to  the  city  and  spent  the  day  there 
with  aching  heads. 

While  they  were  eating  dinner  that 
night,  the  cocktail  remarked  with  the  lips 
of  Mrs.  Bing:  "I'm  getting  tired  of 
Bingville. ' ' 

33 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"Oh,  of  course,  it's  a  picayune  place," 
said  J.  Patterson. 

"It's  so  provincial!"  the  lady  exclaimed. 

Soon,  the  oysters  and  the  entree  having 
subdued  the  cocktail,  she  ventured:  "But 
it  does  seem  to  me  that  New  York  is  an 
awfully  wicked  place. ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Godless,"  she  answered.  "The  drink 
ing  and  gambling  and  those  dances." 

"That's  because  you've  been  brought  up 
in  a  seven-by-nine  Puritan  village, ' '  J.  Pat 
terson  growled  very  decisively.  "Why 
shouldn't  people  enjoy  themselves?  We 
have  trouble  enough  at  best.  God  gave  us 
bodies  to  get  what  enjoyment  we  could 
out  of  them.  It's  about  the  only  thing 
we're  sure  of,  anyhow." 

It  was  a  principle  of  Mrs.  Bing  to  agree 
with  J.  Patterson.  And  why  not?  He  was 
a  great  man.  She  knew  it  as  well  as  he  did 
and  that  was  knowing  it  very  well  in 
deed.  His  judgment  about  many  things 
34 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

had  been  right — triumphantly  and  over 
whelmingly  right.  Besides,  it  was  the  only 
comfortable  thing  to  do.  She  had  been  the 
type  of  woman  who  reads  those  weird 
articles  written  by  grass  widows  on  "How 
to  Keep  the  Love  of  a  Husband. " 

So  it  happened  that  the  Bings  began  to 
construct  a  little  god  to  suit  their  own 
tastes  and  habits — one  about  as  tractable 
as  a  toy  dog.  They  withdrew  from  the 
Congregational  Church  and  had  house 
parties  for  sundry  visitors  from  New  York 
and  Hazelmead  every  week-end. 

Phyllis  returned  from  school  in  May 
with  a  spirit  quite  in  harmony  with  that 
of  her  parents.  She  had  spent  the  holidays 
at  the  home  of  a  friend  in  New  York  and 
had  learned  to  love  the  new  dances  and  to 
smoke,  although  that  was  a  matter  to  be 
mentioned  only  in  a  whisper  and  not  in 
the  presence  of  her  parents.  She  was  a 
tall,  handsome  girl  with  blue  eyes,  blonde 
hair,  perfect  teeth  and  complexion,  and  al- 
35 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

most  a  perfect  figure.  Here  slie  was,  at 
last,  brought  up  to  the  point  of  a  coming- 
out  party. 

It  had  been  a  curious  and  rather  unfor 
tunate  bringing  up  that  the  girl  had  suf 
fered.  She  had  been  the  pride  of  a 
mother's  heart  and  the  occupier  of  that 
position  is  apt  to  achieve  great  success  in 
supplying  a  mother's  friends  with  topics 
of  conversation.  Phyllis  had  been  flattered 
and  indulged.  Mrs.  Bing  was  entitled  to 
much  credit,  having  been  born  of  poor  and 
illiterate  parents  in  a  small  village  on  the 
Hudson  a  little  south  of  the  Capital.  She 
was  pretty  and  grew  up  with  a  longing  for 
better  things.  J.  Patterson  got  her  at  a 
bargain  in  an  Albany  department  store 
where  she  stood  all  day  behind  the  notion 
counter.  "At  a  bargain,"  it  must  be  said, 
because,  on  the  whole,  there  were  higher 
values  in  her  personality  than  in  his.  She 
had  acquired  that  common  Bertha  Clay 
36 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

habit  of  associating  with  noble  lords  who 
lived  in  cheap  romances  and  had  a  taste  for 
poor  but  honest  girls.  The  practical  J. 
Patterson  hated  that  kind  of  thing.  But 
his  wife  kept  a  supply  of  these  highly 
flavored  novels  hidden  in  the  little  flat  and 
spent  her  leisure  reading  them. 

One  of  the  earliest  recollections  of 
Phyllis  was  the  caution,  "Don't  tell 
father!"  received  on  the  hiding  of  a  book. 
Mrs.  Bing  had  bought,  in  those  weak, 
pinching  times  of  poverty,  extravagant 
things  for  herself  and  the  girl  and  gone 
in  debt  for  them.  Collectors  had  come  at 
times  to  get  their  money  with  impatient 
demands. 

The  Bings  were  living  in  a  city  those 
days.  Phyllis  had  been  a  witness  of  many 
interviews  of  the  kind.  All  along  the  way 
of  life,  she  had  heard  the  oft-repeated  in 
junction,  "Don't  tell  father!"  She  came 
to  regard  men  as  creatures  who  were  not 
to  be  told  When  Phyllis  got  into  a  scrape 
37 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

at  school,  on  account  of  a  little  flirtation, 
and  Mrs.  Bing  went  to  see  about  it,  the  two 
agreed  on  keeping  the  salient  facts  from 
father. 

A  dressmaker  came  after  Phyllis  arrived 
to  get  her  ready  for  the  party.  The  after 
noon  of  the  event,  J.  Patterson  brought 
the  young  people  of  the  best  families  of 
Hazelmead  by  special  train  to  Bingville. 
The  Crookers,  the  Witherills,  the  Ameses, 
the  Benfrews  and  a  number  of  the 
most  popular  students  in  the  Normal 
School  were  also  invited.  They  had  the 
famous  string  band  from  Hazelmead  to 
furnish  music,  and  Smith — an  impressive 
young  English  butler  whom  they  had 
brought  from  New  York  on  their  last  re 
turn. 

Phyllis    wore    a    gown    which    Judge 

Crooker  described  as  * '  the  limit. ' '   He  said 

to  his  wife  after  they  had  gone  home: 

"Why,  there  was  nothing  on  her  back  but 

38 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

a  pair  of  velvet  gallowses  and  when  I  stood 
in  front  of  her  my  eyes  were  scared." 

"Mrs.  Bing  calls  it  high  art,"  said  the 
Judge's  wife. 

*  *  I  call  it  down  pretty  close  to  see  level, ' ' 
said  the  Judge.  ' '  When  she  clinched  with 
those  young  fellers  and  went  wrestling 
around  the  room  she  reminded  me  of  a 
grape-vine  growing  on  a  tree." 

This  reaction  on  the  intellect  of  the 
Judge  quite  satisfies  the  need  of  the  his 
torian.  Again  the  Old  Spirit  of  Bingville 
had  received  notice.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  add  that  the  punch  was  strong  and  the 
house  party  over  the  week-end  made  a 
good  deal  of  talk  by  fast  driving  around 
the  country  in  motor-cars  on  Sunday  and 
by  loud  singing  in  boats  on  the  river  and 
noisy  play  on  the  tennis  courts.  That  kind 
of  thing  was  new  to  Bingville. 

When  it  was  all  over,  Phyllis  told  her 
mother  that  Gordon  King — one  of  the 
young  men — had  insulted  her  when  they 
39 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

had  been  ont  in  a  boat  together  on  Sunday. 
Mrs.  Bing  was  shocked.  They  had  a  talk 
abont  it  up  in  Phyllis'  bedroom  at  the  end 
of  which  Mrs.  Bing  repeated  that  familiar 
injunction,  "Don't  tell  father!" 

It  was  soon  after  the  party  that  Mr.  J. 
Patterson  Bing  sent  for  William  Snod- 
'grass,  the  carpenter.  He  wanted  an  ex 
tension  built  on  his  house  containing  new 
bedrooms  and  baths  and  a  large  sun  parlor. 
The  estimate  of  Snodgrass  was  unexpect 
edly  large.  In  explanation  of  the  fact  the 
latter  said:  "We  work  only  eight  hours 
a  day  now.  The  men  demand  it  and  they 
must  be  taken  to  and  from  their  work. 
They  can  get  all  they  want  to  do  on  those 
terms." 

"And  they  demand  seven  dollars  and  a 
half  a  day  at  that?  It's  big  pay  for  an 
ordinary  mechanic,"  said  J.  Patterson. 

"There's  plenty  of  work  to  do,"  Snod 
grass  answered.  "I  don't  care  the  snap 
o'  my  finger  whether  I  get  your  job  or  not. 
40 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

I'm  forty  thousand  ahead  o'  the  game  and 
I  feel  like  layin'  off  for  the  summer  and 
takin'  a  rest." 

1  (I  suppose  I  could  get  you  to  work  over 
time  and  hurry  the  job  through  if  I'm 
willing  to  pay  for  it?"  the  millionaire  in 
quired. 

"The  rate  would  be  time  an'  a  half  for 
work  done  after  the  eight  hours  are  up, 
but  it's  hard  to  get  any  one  to  work  over 
time  these  days." 

"Well,  go  ahead  and  get  all  the  work 
you  can  out  of  these  plutocrats  of  the  saw 
and  hammer.  I'll  pay  the  bills,"  said  J. 
Patterson. 

The  terms  created  a  record  in  Bingville. 
But,  as  Mr.  Bing  had  agreed  to  them,  in 
his  haste,  they  were  established. 

Israel  Sneed,  the  plumber,  was  working 
with  his  men  on  a  job  at  Millerton,  but  he 
took  on  the  plumbing  for  the  Bing  house 
extension,  at  prices  above  all  precedent, 
to  be  done  as  soon  as  he  could  get  to  it  on 
41 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

his  return.  The  butcher  and  grocer  had 
improved  the  opportunity  to  raise  their 
prices  for  Bing  never  questioned  a  bill.  He 
set  the  pace.  Prices  stuck  where  he  put 
the  peg.  So,  unwittingly,  the  millionaire 
had  created  conditions  of  life  that  were 
extremely  difficult. 

Since  prices  had  gone  up  the  village  of 
Bingville  had  been  running  down  at  the 
heel.  It  had  been  at  best  and,  in  the  main, 
a  rather  shiftless  and  inert  community. 
The  weather  had  worn  the  paint  off  many 
houses  before  their  owners  had  seen  the 
need  of  repainting.  Not  until  the  rain 
drummed  on  the  floor  was  the  average, 
drowsy  intellect  of  Bingville  roused  to  ac 
tion  on  the  roof.  It  must  be  said,  however, 
that  every  one  was  busy,  every  day,  except 
Hiram  Blenkinsop,  who  often  indulged  in 
ante  mortem  slumbers  in  the  graveyard 
or  went  out  on  the  river  with  his  dog 
Christmas,  his  bottle  and  his  fishing  rod. 
42 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

The  people  were  selling  goods,  or  team 
ing,  or  working  in  the  two  hotels  or  the 
machine  shop  or  the  electric  light  plant 
or  the  mill,  or  keeping  the  hay  off  the 
lawns,  or  building,  or  teaching  in  the 
schools.  The  gardens  were  suffering  un 
usual  neglect  that  season — their  owners 
being  so  profitably  engaged  in  other  work 
—and  the  lazy  foreigners  demanded  four 
dollars  and  a  half  a  day  and  had  to  be 
watched  and  sworn  at  and  instructed,  and 
not  every  one  had  the  versatility  for  this 
task.  The  gardens  were  largely  dependent 
on  the  spasmodic  industry  of  schoolboys 
and  old  men.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
work  of  the  community  had  little  effect 
on  the  supply  of  things  necessary  to  life. 
Indeed,  a  general  habit  of  extravagance 
had  been  growing  in  the  village.  People 
were  not  so  careful  of  food,  fuel  and  cloth 
ing  as  they  had  been. 

It  was  a  wet  summer  in  Bingville.    The 
day  after  the  rains  began,  Professor  Ren- 
43 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

frew  called  at  the  house  of  the  sniffy  Snotl- 
grass — the  nouveau  riche  and  opulent 
carpenter.  He  sat  reading  the  morning 
paper  with  a  new  diamond  ring  on  the 
third  finger  of  his  left  hand. 

"My  roof  is  leaking  badly  and  it  will 
have  to  be  fixed  at  once,"  the  Professor 
announced. 

"I'm  sorry,  I  can't  do  a  thing  for  you 
now,"  said  Snodgrass.  "I've  got  so  much 
to  do,  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn." 

"But  you're  not  working  this  rainy  day, 
are  you?"  the  Professor  asked. 

"No,  and  I  don't  propose  to  work  in 
this  rain  for  anybody;  if  I  did  I'd  fix  my 
own  roof.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't 
have  to  work  at  all!  I  calculate  that  I've 
got  all  the  money  I  need.  So,  when  it 
rains,  I  intend  to  rest  and  get  acquainted 
with  my  family." 

He  was  firm  but  in  no  way  disagreeable 
about  it. 

Some  of  the  half-dozen  men  who,  in  like 
44 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

trouble,  called  on  him  for  help  that  day 
were  inclined  to  resent  his  declaration  of 
independence  and  his  devotion  to  leisure, 
but  really  Mr.  Snodgrass  was  well  within 
his  rights. 

It  was  a  more  serious  matter  when  Judge 
Crooker's  plumbing  leaked  and  flooded  his 
kitchen  and  cellar.  Israel  Sneed  was  in 
Millerton  every  day  and  working  overtime 
more  or  less.  He  refused  to  put  a  hand 
on  the  Judge's  pipes.  He  was  sorry  but 
he  couldn't  make  a  horse  of  himself  and 
even  if  he  could  the  time  was  past  when 
he  had  to  do  it.  Judge  Crocker  brought 
a  plumber  from  Hazelmead,  sixty  miles 
in  a  motor-car,  and  had  to  pay  seventy 
dollars  for  time,  labor  and  materials.  This 
mechanic  declared  that  there  was  too  much 
pressure  on  the  pipes,  a  judgment  of  whose 
accuracy  we  have  abundant  proof  in  the 
history  of  the  next  week  or  so.  Never  had 
there  been  such  a  bursting  of  pipes  and 
flooding  of  cellars.  That  little  lake  up  in 
45 


THE:PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  hills  which  supplied  the  water  of  Bing- 
ville  seemed  to  have  got  the  common  no 
tion  of  moving  into  the  village.  A  dozen 
cellars  were  turned  into  swimming  pools. 
Modern  improvements  were  going  out  of 
commission.  A  committee  went  to  Hazel- 
,mead  and  after  a  week's  pleading  got  a 
pair  of  young  and  inexperienced  plumbers 
to  come  to  Bingville. 

"They  must  'a'  plugged  'em  with  gold," 
said  Deacon  Hosley,  when  the  bill  arrived. 

New  leaks  were  forthcoming,  but  Hiram 
Blenkinsop  conceived  the  notion  of  stop 
ping  them  with  poultices  of  white  lead  and 
bandages  of  canvas  bound  with  fine  wire. 
They  dripped  and  many  of  the  pipes  of 
Bingville  looked  as  if  they  were  suffering 
from  sprained  ankles  and  sore  throats,  but 
Hiram  had  prevented  another  deluge. 

The  price  of  coal  had  driven  the  people 

of  Bingville  back  to  the  woods  for  fuel. 

The  old  wood  stoves  had  been  cleaned  and 

set  up  in  the  sitting-rooms  and  kitchens. 

46 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

The  saving  had  been  considerable.  Now, 
so  many  men  were  putting  in  their  time 
on  the  house  and  grounds  of  J.  Patterson 
Bing  and  the  new  factory  at  Millerton  that 
the  local  wood  dealer  found  it  impossible 
to  get  the  help  he  needed.  Not  twenty- 
five  per  cent,  of  the  orders  on  his  books 
could  be  filled. 

Mr.  Bing's  house  was  finished  in  October. 
Then  Snodgrass  announced  that  he  was  go 
ing  to  take  it  easy  as  became  a  man  of 
his  opulence.  He  had  bought  a  farm  and 
would  only  work  three  days  a  week  at  his 
trade.  Sneed  had  also  bought  a  farm  and 
acquired  a  feeling  of  opulence.  He  was 
going  to  work  when  he  felt  like  it.  Before 
he  tackled  any  leaking  pipes  he  proposed 
to  make  a  few  leaks  in  the  deer  up  in  the 
Adirondacks.  So  the  roofs  and  the  plumb 
ing  had  to  wait. 

Meanwhile,  Bingville  was  in  sore  trouble. 
The  ancient  roof  of  its  respectability  had 
begun  to  leak.  The  beams  and  rafters  in 
47 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  house  of  its  spirit  were  rotting  away. 
Many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  latter  re 
garded  the  great  J.  Patterson  Bing  with 
a  kind  of  awe — like  that  of  the  Shepherd 
of  the  Birds.  He  was  the  leading  citizen. 
He  had  done  things.  When  J.  Patterson 
Bing  decided  that  rest  or  fresh  air  was 
better  for  him  than  bad  music  and  dull 
prayers  and  sermons,  and  that  God  was 
really  not  much  concerned  as  to  whether 
a  man  sat  in  a  pew  or  a  rocking  chair  or 
a  motor-car  on  Sunday,  he  was,  probably, 
quite  right.  Really,  it  was  a  matter  much 
more  important  to  Mr.  Bing  and  his  neigh 
bors  than  to  God.  Indeed,  it  is  not  at  all 
likely  that  the  ruler  of  the  universe  was 
worrying  much  about  them.  But  when  J. 
Patterson  Bing  decided  in  favor  of  fun  and 
fresh  air,  R.  Purdy — druggist — made  a 
like  decision,  and  R.  Purdy  was  a  man  of 
commanding  influence  in  his  own  home. 
His  daughters,  Mabel  and  Gladys,  and  his 
son,  Richard,  Jr.,  would  not  have  been  sur- 
48 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

prised  to  see  him  elected  President  of  the 
United  States,  some  day,  believing  that 
that  honor  was  only  for  the  truly  great. 
Soon  Mrs.  Purdy  stood  alone — a  hopeless 
minority  of  one — in  the  household.  By 
much  pleading  and  nagging,  she  kept  the 
children  in  the  fold  of  the  church  for  a 
time  but,  by  and  by,  grew  weary  of  the 
effort.  She  was  converted  by  nervous  ex 
haustion  to  the  picnic  Sunday.  Her  con 
science  worried  her.  She  really  felt  sorry 
for  God  and  made  sundry  remarks  cal 
culated  to  appease  and  comfort  Him. 

Now  all  this  would  seem  to  have  been 
in  itself  a  matter  of  slight  importance. 

But  Orville  Gates,  the  superintendent  of 
the  mill,  and  John  Seaver,  attorney  at  law, 
and  Robert  Brown,  the  grocer,  and  Pendle- 
ton  Ames,  who  kept  the  book  and  station 
ery  store,  and  William  Ferguson,  the 
clothier,  and  Darwin  Sill,  the  butcher,  and 
Snodgrass,  the  carpenter,  and  others  had 
49 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

joined  the  picnic  caravan  led  by  the  mil 
lionaire.  These  good  people  would  not 
have  admitted  it,  but  the  truth  is  J.  Pat 
terson  Bing  held  them  all  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  Nobody  outside  his  own 
family  had  any  affection  for  him.  Out 
wardly,  he  was  as  hard  as  nails.  But  he 
owned  the  bank  and  controlled  credits  and 
was  an  extravagant  buyer.  He  had  given 
freely  for  the  improvement  of  the  village 
and  the  neighboring  city  of  Hazelmead. 
His  family  was  the  court  circle  of  Bing- 
ville.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  the 
best  people  imitated  the  Bings. 

Judge  Crocker  was,  one  day,  discussing 
with  a  friend  the  social  conditions  of  Bing- 
ville.  In  regard  to  picnic  Sundays  he 
made  this  remark:  "George  Meredith 
once  wrote  to  his  son  that  he  would  need 
the  help  of  religion  to  get  safely  beyond 
the  stormy  passions  of  youth.  It  is  very 
true!" 

The  historian  was  reminded  of  this  say- 
50 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

ing  by  the  undertow  of  the  life  currents 
in  Bingville.  The  dances  in  the  Normal 
School  and  in  the  homes  of  the  well-to-do 
were  imitations  of  the  great  party  at  J. 
Patterson  Bing's.  The  costumes  of  certain 
of  the  young  ladies  were,  to  quote  a  clause 
from  the  posters  of  the  Messrs.  Barnum 
and  Bailey,  still  clinging  to  the  bill-board: 
"the  most  daring  and  amazing  bareback 
performances  in  the  history  of  the  circus 
ring."  Phyllis  Bing,  the  unrivaled  metro 
politan  performer,  set  the  pace.  It  was 
distinctly  too  rapid  for  her  followers.  If 
one  may  say  it  kindly,  she  was  as  cold  and 
heartless  and  beautiful  in  her  act  as  a 
piece  of  bronze  or  Italian  marble.  She  was 
not  ashamed  of  herself.  She  did  it  so 
easily  and  gracefully  and  unconsciously 
and  obligingly,  so  to  speak,  as  if  her  license 
had  never  been  questioned.  It  was  not  so 
with  Vivian  Mead  and  Frances  Smith  and 
Pauline  Baker.  They  limped  and  strug 
gled  in  their  efforts  to  keep  up.  To  begin 
51 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

with,  the  art  of  their  modiste  had  been 
fussy,  imitative  and  timid.  It  lacked  the 
master  touch.  Their  spirits  were  also  im 
properly  prepared  for  such  publicity. 
They  blushed  and  looked  apologies  and 
were  visibly  uncomfortable  when  they  en 
tered  the  dance-hall. 

On  this  point,  Judge  Crooker  delivered 
a  famous  opinion.  It  was:  "I  feel  sorry 
for  those  girls  but  their  mothers  ought  to 
be  spanked!" 

There  is  evidence  that  this  sentence  of 
his  was  carried  out  in  due  time  and  in  a 
most  effectual  manner.  But  the  works  of 
art  which  these  mothers  had  put  on  ex 
hibition  at  the  Normal  School  sprang  into 
overwhelming  popularity  with  the  young 
men  and  their  cards  were  quickly  filled. 
In  half  an  hour,  they  had  ceased  to  blush. 
Their  eyes  no  longer  spoke  apologies. 
They  were  new  women.  Their  initiation 
was  complete.  They  had  become  in  the 
52 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

language  of  Judge  Crocker,  "  perfect  Phyl- 
listines ! ' ' 

The  dancing  tried  to  be  as  naughty  as 
that  remarkable  Phyllistinian  pastime  at 
the  mansion  of  the  Bings  and  succeeded 
well,  if  not  handsomely.  The  modern 
dances  and  dress  were  now  definitely  estab 
lished  in  Bingville. 

Just  before  the  holidays,  the  extension 
of  the  ample  home  of  the  millionaire  was 
decorated,  furnished,  and  ready  to  be 
shown.  Mrs.  Bing  and  Phyllis  who  had 
been  having  a  fling  in  New  York  came 
home  for  the  holidays.  John  arrived  the 
next  day  from  the  great  Padelford  School 
to  be  with  the  family  through  the  winter 
recess.  Mrs.  Bing  gave  a  tea  to  the  ladies 
of  Bingville.  She  wanted  them  to  see  the 
improvements  and  become  aware  of  her 
good  will.  She  had  thought  of  an  evening 
party,  but  there  were  many  men  in  the 
village  whom  she  didn't  care  to  have  in 
her  house.  So  it  became  a  tea. 
53 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

The  women  talked  of  leaking  roofs  and 
water  pipes  and  useless  bathrooms  and 
outrageous  costs.  Phyllis  sat  in  the  Palm 
Boom  with  the  village  girls.  It  happened 
that  they  talked  mainly  about  their  fathers. 
Some  had  complained  of  paternal  strict 
ness. 

"Men  are  terrible!  They  make  so  much 
trouble,"  said  Frances  Smith.  "It  seems 
as  if  they  hated  to  see  anybody  have  a 
good  time." 

"Mother  and  I  do  as  we  please  and  say 
nothing,"  said  Phyllis.  "We  never  tell 
father  anything.  Men  don't  understand." 

Some  of  the  girls  smiled  and  looked  into 
one  another's  eyes. 

There  had  been  a  curious  undercurrent 
in  the  party.  It  did  not  break  the  surface 
of  the  stream  until  Mrs.  Bing  asked 
Mrs.  Pendleton  Ames,  "Where  is  Susan 
Baker!" 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  group  around  her. 

Mrs.  Ames  leaned  toward  Mrs,  Bing  and 
54 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

whispered,     "Haven't     you     heard     the 
news?" 

"No.  I  had  to  scold  Susan  Crowder  and 
Martha  Featherstraw  as  soon  as  I  got  here 
for  neglecting  their  work  and  they've 
hardly  spoken  to  me  since.  What  is  it?" 

"Pauline  Baker  has  run  away  with  a 
strange  young  man, ' '  Mrs.  .Ames  whispered. 

Mrs.  Bing  threw  up  both  hands,  opened 
her  mouth  and  looked  toward  the  ceiling. 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  she  gasped. 

"  It 's  a  fact.  Susan  told  me.  Mr.  Baker 
doesn't  know  the  truth  yet  and  she  doesn't 
dare  to  tell  him.  She's  scared  stiff. 
Pauline  went  over  to  Hazelmead  last  week 
to  visit  Emma  Stacy  against  his  wishes. 
She  met  the  young  man  at  a  dance.  Susan 
got  a  letter  from  Pauline  last  night  mak 
ing  a  clean  breast  of  the  matter.  They 
are  married  and  stopping  at  a  hotel  in  New 
York." 

"My  lord!     I  should  think  she  would 
be  scared  stiff,"  said  Mrs.  Bing. 
55 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  think  there  is  a  good  reason  for  the 
stiffness  of  Susan,"  said  Mrs.  Singleton, 
the  wife  of  the  Congregational  minister. 
"We  all  know  that  Mr.  Baker  objected  to 
these  modern  dances  and  the  way  that 
Pauline  dressed.  He  used  to  say  that  it 
was  walking  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice." 

There  was  a  breath  of  silence  in  which 
one  could  hear  only  a  faint  rustle  like  the 
stir  of  some  invisible  spirit. 

Mrs.  Bing  sighed.  "He  may  be  all 
right,"  she  said  in  a  low,  calm  voice. 

"But  the  indications  are  not  favorable," 
Mrs.  Singleton  remarked. 

The  gossip  ceased  abruptly,  for  the  girls 
were  coming  out  of  the  Palm  Eoom. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Bing  went  to 
see  Susan  Baker  to  offer  sympathy  and  a 
helping  hand.  Mamie  Bing  was,  after  all, 
a  good-hearted  woman.  By  this  time,  Mr. 
Baker  had  been  told.  He  had  kicked  a 
hole  in  the  long  looking-glass  in  Pauline's 
bedroom  and  flung  a  pot  of  rouge  through 
56 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  window  and  scattered  talcum  powder 
all  over  the  place  and  torn  a  new  silk 
gown  into  rags  and  burnt  it  in  the  kitchen 
stove  and  left  the  house  slamming  the 
door  behind  him.  Susan  had  gone  to  bed 
and  he  had  probably  gone  to  the  club  or 
somewhere.  Perhaps  he  would  commit 
suicide.  Of  all  this,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  for  some  hours  there  was  abundant 
occupation  for  the  tender  sympathies  of 
Mrs.  J.  Patterson  Bing.  Before  she  left, 
Mr.  Baker  had  returned  for  luncheon  and 
seemed  to  be  quite  calm  and  self-possessed 
when  he  greeted  her  in  the  hall  below 
stairs. 

On  entering  her  home,  about  one  o'clock, 
Mrs.  Bing  received  a  letter  from  the  hand 
of  Martha. 

"Phyllis  told  me  to  give  you  this  as  soon 
as  you  returned,"  said  the  girl. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  Mrs.  Bing 
whispered  to  herself,  as  she  tore  open  the 
envelope. 

57 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Her  face  grew  pale  and  her  hands  trem 
bled  as  she  read  the  letter. 

"Dearest  Mamma,"  it  began.  "I  am 
going  to  Hazelmead  for  luncheon  with 
Gordon  King.  I  couldn't  ask  you  because 
I  didn't  know  where  you  were.  We  have 
waited  an  hour.  I  am  sure  you  wouldn't 
want  me  to  miss  having  a  lovely  time.  I 
shall  be  home  before  five.  Don't  tell 
father!  He  hates  Gordon  so. 

"Phyllis." 

' '  The  boy  who  insulted  her !  My  God ! ' ' 
Mrs.  Bing  exclaimed  in  a  whisper.  She 
hurried  to  the  door  of  the  butler's  pantry. 
Indignation  was  in  the  sound  of  her 
footsteps. 

1 ' Martha!"  she  called. 

Martha  came. 

1 '  Tell  James  to  bring  the  big  car  at  once. 
I'm  going  to  Hazelmead." 

"Without  luncheon?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Just  give  me  a  sandwich  and  I'll  eat 
it  in  my  hand." 

58 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  want  you  to  hurry/'  she  said  to 
James  as  she  entered  the  glowing  limou 
sine  with  the  sandwich  half  consumed. 

They  drove  at  top  speed  over  the  smooth, 
state  road  to  the  mill  city.  At  half  past 
two,  Mrs.  Bing  alighted  at  the  fashionable 
Gray  Goose  Inn  where  the  best  people  had 
their  luncheon  parties.  She  found  Phyllis 
and  Gordon  in  a  cozy  alcove,  sipping 
cognac  and  smoking  cigarettes,  with  an 
ice  tub  and  a  champagne  bottle  beside 
them.  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  it  was  a 
timely  arrival.  Phyllis,  with  no  notion  of 
the  peril  of  it,  was  indeed  having  "a  lovely 
time" — the  time  of  her  young  life,  in  fact. 
For  half  an  hour,  she  had  been  hanging 
on  the  edge  of  the  giddy  precipice  of  elope 
ment.  She  was  within  one  sip  of  a  deci 
sion  to  let  go. 

Mrs.  Bing  was  admirably  cool.    In  her 

manner  there  was  little  to  indicate  that 

she  had  seen  the  unusual  and  highly  festive 

accessories.     She  sat  down  beside  them 

59 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

and  said,  "My  dear,  I  was  very  lonely  and 
thought  I  would  come  and  look  you  up.  Is 
your  luncheon  finished  1" 

"Yes,"  said  Phyllis. 

"Then  let  us  go  and  get  into  the  car. 
We  '11  drop  Mr.  King  at  his  home. ' ' 

When  at  last  they  were  seated  in  the 
limousine,  the  angry  lady  lifted  the  brakes 
in  a  way  of  speaking. 

"I  am  astonished  that  you  would  go  to 
luncheon  with  this  young  man  who  has  in 
sulted  you,"  she  said. 

Phyllis  began  to  cry. 

Turning  to  young  Gordon  King,  the  in 
dignant  lady  added:  "I  think  you  are  a 
disreputable  boy.  You  must  never  come 
to  my  house  again — never!" 

He  made  no  answer  and  left  the  car  with 
out  a  word  at  the  door  of  the  King  resi 
dence. 

There  were  miles  and  miles  of  weeping 
on  the  way  home.    Phyllis  had  recovered 
60 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

her  composure  but  began  again  when  her 
mother  remarked,  "I  wonder  where  you 
learned  to  drink  champagne  and  cognac 
and  smoke  cigarettes,"  as  if  her  own  home 
had  not  been  a  perfect  academy  of  dissipa 
tion.  The  girl  sat  in  a  'corner,  her  eyes 
covered  with  her  handkerchief  and  the 
only  words  she  uttered  on  the  way  home 
were  these :  * '  Don 't  tell  father ! ' ' 

While  this  was  happening,  Mr.  Baker 
confided  his  troubles  to  Judge  Crooker  in 
the  latter 's  office.  The  Judge  heard  him 
through  and  then  delivered  another  notable 
opinion,  to  wit :  ' '  There  are  many  subjects 
on  which  the  judgment  of  the  average  man 
is  of  little  value,  but  in  the  matter  of  bring 
ing  up  a  daughter  it  is  apt  to  be  sound. 
Also  there  are  many  subjects  on  which  the 
judgment  of  the  average  woman  may  be 
trusted,  but  in  the  matter  of  bringing  up 
a  daughter  it  is  apt  to  be  unsound.  I  say 
this,  after  some  forty  years  of  observa 
tion." 

61 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"What  is  the  reason?"  Mr.  Baker  asked. 

"Well,  a  daughter  has  to  be  prepared 
to  deal  with  men,"  the  Judge  went  on. 
"The  masculine  temperament  is  involved 
in  all  the  critical  problems  of  her  life. 
Naturally  the  average  man  is  pretty  well 
informed  on  the  subject  of  men.  You  have 
prospered  these  late  years.  You  have  been 
so  busy  getting  rich  that  you  have  just 
used  your  home  to  eat  and  sleep  in.  You 
can't  do  a  home  any  good  by  eating  and 
snoring  and  reading  a  paper  in  it." 

"My  wife  would  have  her  own  way 
there,"  said  Baker. 

"That  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  you 
have  neglected  your  home.  You  have  let 
things  slide.  You  wore  yourself  out  in 
this  matter  of  money-getting.  You  were 
tired  when  you  got  home  at  night — all  in, 
as  they  say.  The  bank  was  the  main  thing 
with  you.  I  repeat  that  you  let  things  slide 
at  home  and  the  longer  they  slide  the 
faster  they  slide  when  they're  going  down 
62 


'THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

hill.  You  can  always  count  on  that  in  a 
case  of  sliding.  The  young  have  a  taste 
for  velocity  and  often  it  comes  so  unac 
countably  fast  that  they  don't  know  what 
to  do  with  it,  so  they're  apt  to  get  their 
necks  broken  unless  there's  some  one  to 
put  on  the  brakes." 

Mr.  Emanuel  Baker  arose  and  began  to 
stride  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Upon  my  word,  Judge!  I  don't  know 
what  to  do,"  he  exclaimed. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do.  Go  and 
find  the  young  people  and  give  them  your 
blessing.  If  you  can  discover  a  spark  of 
manhood  in  the  fellow,  make  the  most  of 
it.  The  chances  are  against  that,  but  let 
us  hope  for  the  best.  Above  all,  I  want 
you  to  be  gentle  with  Pauline.  You  are 
more  to  blame  than  she  is." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  spare  the  time, 
but  I'll  have  to,"  said  Baker. 

"Time!  Fiddlesticks!"  the  Judge  ex 
claimed.  '  *  What  a  darn  fool  money  makes 
62 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

of  a  man!  You  have  lost  your  sense  of 
proportion,  your  appreciation  of  values. 
Bill  Pritchard  used  to  talk  that  way  to 
me.  He  has  been  lying  twenty  years  in  his 
grave.  He  hadn't  a  minute  to  spare  until 
one  day  he  fell  dead — then  leisure  and  lots 
of  leisure  it  would  seem — and  the  business 
has  doubled  since  he  quit  worrying  about 
it.  My  friend,  you  can  not  take  a  cent  into 
Paradise,  but  the  soul  of  Pauline  is  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  property.  It  might  be  a 
help  to  you  there.  Give  plenty  of  time  to 
this  job,  and  good  luck  to  you." 

The  spirit  of  the  old,  dead  days  spoke 
in  the  voice  of  the  Judge — spoke  with  a 
kindly  dignity.  It  had  ever  been  the  voice 
of  Justice,  tempered  with  Mercy — the  most 
feared  and  respected  voice  in  the  upper 
counties.  His  grave,  smooth-shaven  face, 
his  kindly  gray  eyes,  his  noble  brow  with 
its  crown  of  white  hair  were  fitting 
accessories  of  the  throne  of  Justice  and 
Mercy. 

64 


THE  PRODIGAL  _VILLAGE 

1  'I'll   go   this   afternoon.     Thank   you, 
Judge!"  said  Baker,  as  he  left  the  office. 

Pauline  had  announced  in  her  letter  that 
her  husband's  name  was  Herbert  Middle- 
ton.  Mr.  Baker  sent  a  telegram  to  Pauline 
to  apprise  her  of  his  arrival  in  the  morn 
ing.  It  was  a  fatherly  message  of  love  and 
good- will.  At  the  hotel  in  New  York,  Mr. 
Baker  learned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Middle- 
ton  had  checked  out  the  day  before.  No 
body  could  tell  him  where  they  had  gone. 
One  of  the  men  at  the  porter's  desk  told 
of  putting  them  in  a  taxicab  with  their 
grips  and  a  steamer  trunk  soon  after 
luncheon.  He  didn't  know  where  they 
went.  Mr.  Baker's  telegram  was  there 
unopened.  He  called  at  every  hotel  desk 
in  the  city,  but  he  could  get  no  trace  of 
them.  He  telephoned  to  Ittrs.  Baker.  She 
had  heard  nothing  from  Pauline.  In  de 
spair,  he  went  to  the  Police  Department 
and  told  his  story  to  the  Chief. 
65 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"It  looks  as  if  there  was  something 
crooked  about  it, ' '  said  the  Chief.  ' '  There 
are  many  cases  like  this.  Just  read 
that." 

The  officer  picked  up  a  newspaper  clip 
ping,  which  lay  on  his  desk,  and  passed  it 
to  Mr.  Baker.  It  was  from  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  The  banker  read  aloud  this 
startling  information : 

"  'The  New  York  police  report  that 
approximately  3600  girls  have  run  away 
or  disappeared  from  their  homes  in  the 
past  eleven  months,  and  the  Bureau  of 
Missing  Persons  estimates  that  the  num 
ber  who  have  disappeared  throughout  the 
country  approximates  68,000.'  " 

"It's  rather  astonishing,"  the  Chief 
went  on.  "The  women  seem  to  have  gone 
crazy  these  days.  Maybe  it's  the  new 
dancing  and  the  movies  that  are  breaking 
down  the  morals  of  the  little  suburban 
towns  or  maybe  it's  the  excitement  of  the 
war.  Anyhow,  they  keep  the  city  supplied 
66 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

with  runaways  and  vamps.  You  are  not 
the  first  anxious  father  I  have  seen  to-day. 
You  can  go  home.  I'll  put  a  man  on  the 
case  and  let  you  know  what  happens." 


CHAPTEE  THREE 


nnHEEE  was  a  certain  gold  coin  in  a 
-*-  little  bureau  drawer  in  Bingville 
which  began  to  form  a  habit  of  complain 
ing  to  its  master. 

"How  cold  I  am!"  it  seemed  to  say  to 
the  boy.  "I  was  cold  when  you  put  me 
in  here  and  I  have  been  cold  ever  since. 
Br-r-r!  I'm  freezing." 

Bob  Moran  took  out  the  little  drawer 
and  gave  it  a  shaking  as  he  looked  down 
at  the  gold  piece. 

"Don't  get  rattled,"  said  the  redoubt 
able  Mr.  Bloggs,  who  had  a  great  contempt 
for  cowards. 

It  was  just  after  the  Shepherd  of  the 
68 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

B'rds  had  heard  of  a  poor  widow  who 
was  the  mother  of  two  small  children  and 
who  had  fallen  sick  of  the  influenza  with 
no  fuel  in  her  house. 

"I  am  cold,  too!"  said  the  Shepherd. 

"Why,  of  course  you  are,"  the  coin  an 
swered.  "That's  the  reason  I'm  cold.  A 
coin  is  never  any  warmer  than  the  heart 
of  its  owner.  Why  don't  you  take  me  out 
of  here  and  give  me  a  chance  to  move 
around?" 

Things  that  would  not  say  a  word  to 
other  boys  often  spoke  to  the  Shepherd. 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Mr.  Bloggs. 

Indeed  it  was  the  tin  soldier,  who  stood 
on  his  little  shelf  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow,  who  first  reminded  Bob  of  the  loneli 
ness  and  discomfort  of  the  coin.  As  a  rule 
whenever  the  conscience  of  the  boy  was 
touched  Mr.  Bloggs  had  something  to  say. 

It  was  late  in  February  and  every  one 
was  complaining  of  the  cold.  Even  the 
oldest  inhabitants  of  Bingville  could  not 
69 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

recall  so  severe  a  winter.  Many  families 
were  short  of  fuel.  The  homes  of  the  work 
ing  folk  were  insufficiently  heated.  Money 
in  the  bank  had  given  them  a  sense  of 
security.  They  could  not  believe  that  its 
magic  power  would  fail  to  bring  them 
what  they  needed.  So  they  had  been  care 
less  of  their  allowance  of  wood  and  coal. 
There  were  days  when  they  had  none  and 
could  get  none  at  the  yard.  Some  of  them 
took  boards  out  of  their  barn  floors  and 
cut  down  shade  trees  and  broke  up  the 
worst  of  their  furniture  to  feed  the  kitchen 
stove  in  those  days  of  famine.  Some  men 
with  hundreds  of  dollars  in  the  bank  went 
out  into  the  country  at  night  and  stole 
rails  off  the  farmers'  fences.  The  homes 
of  these  unfortunate  people  were  ravaged 
by  influenza  and  many  died. 

Prices   at  the   stores  mounted  higher. 

Most  of  the  gardens  had  been  lying  idle* 

The  farmers  had  found  it  hard  to  get  help. 

Some  of  the  latter,  indeed,  had  decided 

70 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

that  they  could  make  more  by  teaming  at 
Millerton  than  by  toiling  in  the  fields,  and 
with  less  effort.  They  left  the  boys  and 
the  women  to  do  what  they  could  with  the 
crops.  Naturally  the  latter  were  small. 
So  the  local  sources  of  supply  had  little 
to  offer  and  the  demand  upon  the  stores 
steadily  increased.  Certain  of  the  mer 
chants  had  been,  in  a  way,  spoiled  by  pros 
perity.  They  were  rather  indifferent  to 
complaints  and  demands.  Many  of  the 
storekeepers,  irritated,  doubtless,  by  over 
work,  had  lost  their  former  politeness. 
The  two  butchers,  having  prospered  be 
yond  their  hopes,  began  to  feel  the  need 
of  rest.  They  cut  down  their  hours  of  labor 
and  reduced  their  stocks  and  raised  their 
prices.  There  were  days  when  their  sup 
plies  failed  to  arrive.  The  railroad  ser 
vice  had  been  bad  enough  in  times  of  peace. 
Now,  it  was  worse  than  ever. 

Those  who  had  plenty  of  money  found 
71 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

it  difficult  to  get  a  sufficient  quantity  of 
good  food,  Bingville  being  rather  cut  off 
from  other  centers  of  life  by  distance  and 
a  poor  railroad.  Some  drove  sixty  miles 
to  Hazelmead  to  do  marketing  for  them 
selves  and  their  neighbors. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  Patterson  Bing,  how 
ever,  in  their  luxurious  apartment  at  the 
Waldorf-Astoria  Hotel  in  New  York,  knew 
little  of  these  conditions  until  Mr.  Bing 
came  up  late  in  March  for  a  talk  with  the 
mill  superintendent.  Many  of  the  sick  and 
poor  suffered  extreme  privation.  Father 
0  'Neil  and  the  Eeverend  Otis  Singleton  of 
the  Congregational  Church  went  among 
the  people,  ministering  to  the  sick,  of 
whom  there  were  very  many,  and  giving 
counsel  to  men  and  women  who  were  un 
accustomed  to  prosperity  and  ill-qualified 
wisely  to  enjoy  it.  One  day,  Father  O'Neil 
saw  the  Widow  Moran  coming  into  town 
with  a  great  bundle  of  fagots  on  her 
back. 

72 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"This  looks  a  little  like  the  old  coun 
try,"  he  remarked. 

She  stopped  and  swung  her  fagots  to  the 
ground  and  announced:  "It  do  that  an' 
may  God  help  us!  It's  hard  times,  Father. 
In  spite  o'  all  tne  money,  it's  hard  times. 
It  looks  like  there  wasn't  enough  to  go 
'round — the  ships  be  takin'  so  many  things 
to  the  old  country." 

"How  is  my  beloved  Shepherd?"  the 
good  Father  asked. 

"Mother  o'  God!  The  house  is  that  cold, 
he's  been  layin'  abed  for  a  week  an'  Judge 
Crooker  has  been  away  on  the  circuit. ' ' 

"Too  bad!"  said  the  priest.  "I've  been 
so  busy  with  the  sick  and  the  dying  and 
the  dead  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  think  of 
you." 

Against  her  protest,  he  picked  up  the 
fagots  and  carried  them  on  his  own  back 
to  her  kitchen. 

He  found  the  Shepherd  in  a  sweater 
sitting  up  in  bed  and  knitting  socks. 
73 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

t '  How  is  my  dear  boy  f ' '  the  good  Father 
asked. 

"Very  sad,"  said  the  Shepherd.  "I 
want  to  do  something  to  help  and  my  legs 
are  useless." 

"Courage!"  Mr.  Bloggs  seemed  to 
shout  from  his  shelf  at  the  window- 
side  and  just  then  he  assumed  a  most 
valiant  and  determined  look  as  he  added: 
"Forward!  march!" 

Father  0  'Neil  did  what  he  could  to  help 
in  that  moment  of  peril  by  saying : 

"Cheer  up,  boy.  I'm  going  out  to  Dan 
Mullin's  this  afternoon  and  I'll  make  him 
bring  you  a  big  load  of  wood.  I'll  have 
you  back  at  your  work  to-morrow.  The 
spring  will  be  coming  soon  and  your  flock 
will  be  back  in  the  garden." 

It  was  not  easy  to  bring  a  smile  to  tie 

face  of  the  little  Shepherd  those  days.    A 

number  of  his  friends  had  died  and  others 

were  sick  and  he  was  helpless.    Moreover, 

74 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

his  mother  had  told  him  of  the  disappear 
ance  of  Pauline  and  that  her  parents 
feared  she  was  in  great  trouble.  This  had 
worried  him,  and  the  more  because  his 
mother  had  declared  that  the  girl  was  prob 
ably  worse  than  dead.  He  could  not  quite 
understand  it  and  his  happy  spirit  was 
clouded.  The  good  Father  cheered  him 
with  merry  jests.  Near  the  end  of  their 
talk  the  boy  said:  "There's  one  thing  in 
this  room  that  makes  me  unhappy.  It's 
that  gold  piece  in  the  drawer.  It  does 
nothing  but  lie  there  and  shiver  and  talk 
to  me.  Seems  as  if  it  complained  of  the 
cold.  It  says  that  it  wants  to  move  around 
and  get  warm.  Every  time  I  hear  of  some 
poor  person  that  needs  food  or  fuel,  it 
calls  out  to  me  there  in  the  little  drawer 
and  says,  'How  cold  I  am!  How  cold  I 
am!'  My  mother  wishes  me  to  keep  it 
for  some  time  of  trouble  that  may  come 
to  us,  but  I  can't.  It  makes  me  un 
happy.  Please  take  it  away  and  let  it 
75 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

do  what  it  can  to  keep  the  poor  people 
warm. ' ' 

''Well  done,  boys!"  Mr.  Bloggs  seemed 
to  say  with  a  look  of  joy  as  if  he  now 
perceived  that  the  enemy  was  in  full  re 
treat. 

"There's  no  worse  company,  these  days, 
than  a  hoarded  coin,"  said  the  priest.  "I 
won't  let  it  plague  you  any  more." 

Father  O'Neil  took  the  coin  from  the 
drawer.  It  fell  from  his  fingers  with  a 
merry  laugh  as  it  bounded  on  the  floor  and 
whirled  toward  the  doorway  like  one  over 
joyed  and  eager  to  be  off. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy!  May  it  buy 
for  you  the  dearest  wish  of  your  heart." 

"Ha  ha!"  laughed  the  little  tin  soldier 
for  he  knew  the  dearest  wish  of  the  boy 
far  better  than  the  priest  knew  it. 

Mr.  Singleton  called  soon  after  Father 
O'Neil  had  gone  away. 

"The  top  of  the  morning  to  you!"  he 
shouted,  as  he  came  into  Bob's  room. 
76 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"It's  all  right  top  and  bottom,"  Bob 
answered  cheerfully. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 
the  minister  went  OIL  "I'm  a  regular 
Santa  Glaus  this  morning.  I've  got  a 
thousand  dollars  that  Mr.  Bing  sent  me. 
It's  for  any  one  that  needs  help." 

"We'll  be  all  right  as  soon  as  our  load 
of  wood  comes.  It  will  be  here  to-morrow 
morning,"  said  the  Shepherd. 

"I'll  come  and  cut  and  split  it  for  you," 
the  minister  proposed.  /"The  eloquence  of 
the  axe  is  better  than  that  of  the  tongue 
these  days.  Meanwhile,  I'm  going  to 
bring  you  a  little  jag  in  my  wheelbarrow. 
How  about  beefsteak  and  bacon  and  eggs 
and  all  that?" 

"I  guess  we've  got  enough  to  eat,  thank 
you."  This  was  not  quite  true,  for  Bob, 
thinking  of  the  sick,  whose  people  could 
not  go  to  market,  was  inclined  to  hide  his 
own  hunger. 

"Ho,  ho!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bloggs,  for 
77 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

he  knew  very  well  that  the  boy  was  hiding 
his  hunger. 

"Do  you  call  that  a  lie?"  the  Shepherd 
asked  as  soon  as  the  minister  had  gone. 

"A  little  one!  But  in  my  opinion  it 
don't  count,"  said  Mr.  Bloggs.  "You  were 
thinking  of  those  who  need  food  more 
than  you  and  that  turns  it  square  around. 
I  call  it  a  golden  lie — I  do. ' ' 

The  minister  had  scarcely  turned  the  cor 
ner  of  the  street,  when  he  met  Hiram  Blen- 
kinsop,  who  was  shivering  along  without 
an  overcoat,  the  dog  Christmas  at  his  heels. 

Mr.  Singleton  stopped  him. 

"Why,  man!  Haven't  you  an  over 
coat?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir!  It's  hangin'  on  a  peg  in  a 
pawn-shop  over  in  Hazelmead.  It  ain't 
doin'  the  peg  any  good  nor  me  neither!" 

"Well,  sir,  you  come  with  me,"  said  the 
minister.  "  It 's  about  dinner  time,  anyway, 
and  I  guess  you  need  lining  as  well  as 


covering. ' ' 


78 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

The  drunkard  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
minister. 

"Say  it  ag'in,"  he  muttered. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  if  a  little  food  would 
make  you  feel  better,"  Mr.  Singleton 
added. 

"A  little,  did  ye  say?"  Blenkinsop 
asked. 

"Make  it  a  lot — as  much  as  you  can  ac 
commodate.  '  ' 

"And  do  ye  mean  that  ye  want  me  to 
go  an'  eat  in  yer  house1?" 

"Yes,  at  my  table — why  not?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  respectable.  I  don't 
want  to  be  too  particular  but  a  tramp 
must  draw  the  line  somewhere." 

"I'll  be  on  my  best  behavior.  Come 
on,"  said  the  minister. 

The  two  men  hastened  up  the  street  fol 
lowed  by  the  dejected  little  yellow  dog, 
Christmas. 

Mrs.  Singleton  and  her  'daughter  were 
out  with  a  committee  of  the  Children's 
79 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Helpers  and  the  minister  was  dining  alone 
that  day  and,  as  usual,  at  one  o  'clock,  that 
being  the  hour  for  dinner  in  the  village 
of  Bingville. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself/'  said  the  min 
ister  as  they  sat  down  at  the  table. 

11  Myself — did  you  say?"  Hiram  Blenkin- 
sop  asked  as  one  of  his  feet  crept  under 
his  chair  to  conceal  its  disreputable  ap 
pearance,  while  his  dog  had  partly  hidden 
himself  under  a  serving  table  where  he 
seemed  to  be  shivering  with  apprehension 
as  he  peered  out,  with  raised  hackles,  at 
the  stag's  head  over  the  mantel. 

"Yes." 

"I  ain't  got  any  Self,  sir;  it's  all  gone," 
said  Blenkinsop,  as  he  took  a  swallow  of 
water. 

"A  man  without  any  Self  is  a  curious 
creature,"  the  minister  remarked. 

"I'm  as  empty  as  a  woodpecker's  hole 
in  the  winter  time.  The  bird  has  flown. 
I  belong  to  this  'ere  dog.  He's  a 
80 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

poor  dog.  I'm  all  lie's  got.  If  Ee 
had  to  pay  a  license  on  me  I'd  have 
to  be  killed.  He's  kind  to  me.  He's 
the  only  friend  I've  got." 

Hiram  Blenkinsop  riveted  his  attention 
upon  an  old  warming-pan  that  hung  by 
the  fireplace.  He  hardly  looked  at  the  face 
of  the  minister. 

' 'How  did  you  come  to  lose  your  Self?" 
the  latter  asked. 

"Married  a  bad  woman  and  took  to 
drink.  A  man's  Self  can  stand  cold  an' 
hunger  an'  shipwreck  an'  loss  o'  friends 
an'  money  an'  any  quantity  o'  bad  luck, 
take  it  as  it  comes,  but  a  bad  woman 
breaks  the  works  in  him  an'  stops  his 
clock  dead.  Leastways,  it  done  that 
to  me!" 

"She  is  like  an  arrow  in  his  liver,"  the 
minister  quoted.  "Mr.  Blenkinsop,  where 
do  you  stay  nights?" 

"I've  a  shake-down  in  the  little  loft 
over  the  ol'  blacksmith  shop  on  Water 
81 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Street.  There  are  cracks  in  the  gable,  an' 
the  snow  an'  the  wind  blows  in,  an'  the 
place  is  dark  an'  smells  o'  coal  gas  an' 
horses'  feet,  but  Christmas  an'  I  snug  up 
together  an'  manage  to  live  through  the 
winter.  In  hot.  weather,  we  sleep  under  a 
tree  in  the  ol'  graveyard  an'  study 
astronomy.  Sometimes,  I  wish  I  was  there 
for  good." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  bed  in  a  com 
fortable  house?" 

"No.  I  couldn't  take  the  dog  there  an' 
I'd  have  to  git  up  like  other  folks." 

1  i  Would  you  think  that  a  hardship  ? ' ' 

"Well,  ye  see,  sir,  if  ye 're  layin'  down 
ye  ain't  hungry.  Then,  too,  I  likes  to 
dilly-dally  in  bed." 

"What  may  that  mean?"  the  minister 
asked. 

"I  likes  to  lay  an'  think  an'  build  air 
castles." 

"What  kind  of  castles?" 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  thinkin'  often  o'  a  time 
82 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

when  I'll  have  a  grand  suit  o'  clothes,  an* 
a  shiny  silk  tile  on  my  head,  an'  a  roll  o' 
bills  in  my  pocket,  big  enough  to  choke 
a  dog,  an'  I'll  be  goin'  back  to  the  town 
where  I  was  brought  up  an'  I'll  hire  a 
fine  team  an'  take  my  ol'  mother  out  for 
a  ride.  An'  when  we  pass  by,  people  will 
be  sayin':  'That's  Hiram  Blenkinsop! 
Don't  you  remember  him?  Born  on  the 
top  floor  o'  the  ol'  sash  mill  on  the  island. 
He's  a  multi-millionaire  an'  a  great  man. 
He  gives  a  thousand  to  the  poor  every  day. 
Sure,  he  does!' 

"Blenkinsop,  I'd  like  to  help  you  to  re 
cover  your  lost  Self  and  be  a  useful  and  re 
spected  citizen  of  this  town, ' '  said  Mr.  Sin 
gleton.  "You  can  do  it  if  you  will  and  I 
can  tell  you  how." 

Tears  began  to  stream  down  the  cheeks 
of  the  unfortunate  man,  who  now  covered 
his  eyes  with  a  big,  rough  hand. 

"If  you  will  make  an  honest  effort,  I'll 
stand  by  you.  I'll  be  your  friend  through 
83 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

thick  and  thin,"  the  minister  added. 
1  'There's  something  good  in  you  or  you 
wouldn't  be  having  a  dream  like  that." 

"Nobody  has  ever  talked  to  me  this 
way,"  poor  Blenkinsop  sobbed.  "Nobody 
but  you  has  ever  treated  me  as  if  I  was 
human." 

"I  know — I  know.  It's  a  hard  old 
world,  but  at  last  you  Ve  found  a  man  who 
is  willing  to  be  a  brother  to  you  if  you 
really  want  one. ' ' 

The  poor  man  rose  from  the  table  and 
went  to  the  minister's  side  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  do  want  a  brother,  sir,  an'  I'll  do 
anything  at  all,"  he  said  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"Then  come  with  me,"  the  minister 
commanded.  "First,  I'm  going  to  im 
prove  the  outside  of  you." 

When  they  were  ready  to  leave  the 
house,  Blenkinsop  and  his  dog  had  had  a 
bath  and  the  former  was  shaved  and  in 
84 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

clean  and  respectable  garments  from  top 
to  toe. 

"You  look  like  a  new  man,"  said  Mr. 
Singleton. 

"Seems  like,  I  felt  more  like  a  proper 
human  beinV'  Blenkinsop  answered. 

Christmas  was  scampering  up  and  down 
the  hall  as  if  he  felt  like  a  new  dog.  Sud 
denly  he  discovered  the  stag's  head 
again  and  slunk  into  a  dark  corner  growl 
ing. 

"A  bath  is  a  good  sort  of  baptism,"  the 
minister  remarked.  "Here's  an  overcoat 
that  I  haven't  worn  for  a  year.  It's  fairly 
warm,  too.  Now  if  your  Old  Self  should 
happen  to  come  in  sight  of  you,  maybe 
he'd  move  back  into  his  home.  I  remem 
ber  once  that  we  had  a  canary  bird  that 
got  away.  We  hung  his  cage  in  one  of  the 
trees  out  in  the  yard  with  some  food  in  it. 
By  and  by,  we  found  him  singing  on  the 
perch  in  his  little  home.  Now,  if  we  put 
some  good  food  in  the  cage,  maybe  your 
85] 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

bird  will  come  back.  Our  work  has  only 
just  begun." 

They  went  out  of  the  door  and  crossed 
the  street  and  entered  the  big  stone  Con 
gregational  Church  and  sat  down  together 
in  a  pew.  A  soft  light  came  through  the 
great  jeweled  windows  above  the  altar, 
and  in  the  clearstory,  and  over  the 
organ  loft.  They  were  the  gift  of  Mr. 
Bing.  It  was  a  quiet,  restful,  beautiful 
place. 

"I  used  to  stand  in  the  pulpit  there  and 
look  down  upon  a  crowd  of  handsomely 
dressed  people,"  said  Mr.  Singleton  in  a 
low  voice.  "  *  There  is  something  wrong 
about  this,'  I  thought.  *  There's  too  much 
respectability  here.  There  are  no  flannel 
shirts  and  gingham  dresses  in  the  place.  I 
can  not  see  half  a  dozen  poor  people.  I 
wish  there  was  some  ragged  clothing  down 
there  in  the  pews.  There  isn't  an  out-and- 
out  sinner  in  the  crowd.  Have  we  set  up  a 
little  private  god  of  our  own  that  cares 
86 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

only  for  the  rich  and  respectable?'  I 
asked  myself.  'This  is  the  place  for 
Hiram  Blenkinsop  and  old  Bill  Lang  and 
poor  Lizzie  Quesnelle,  if  they  only  knew  it. 
Those  are  the  kind  of  people  that  Jesns 
cared  most  about.'  They're  beginning  to 
come  to  ns  now  and  we  are  glad  of  it.  I 
want  to  see  you  here  every  Sunday  after 
this.  I  want  you  to  think  of  this  place  as 
your  home.  If  you  really  wish  to  be  my 
brother,  come  with  me." 

Blenkinsop  trembled  with  strange  ex 
citement  as  he  went  with  Mr.  Singleton 
down  the  broad  aisle,  the  dog  Christmas 
following  meekly.  Man  and  minister  knelt 
before  the  altar.  Christmas  sat  down  by 
his  master's  side,  in  a  prayerful  attitude, 
as  if  he,  too,  were  seeking  help  and  forgive 
ness. 

"I  feel  better  inside  an'  outside,"  said 
Blenkinsop  as  they  were  leaving  the 
church. 

"When  you  are  tempted,  there  are  three 
87 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

words  which  may  be  useful  to  you.  They 
are  these,  '  God  help  me, '  : '  the  minister 
told  him.  "They  are  quickly  said  and  I 
have  often  found  them  a  source  of  strength 
in  time  of  trouble.  I  am  going  to  find 
work  for  you  and  there's  a  room  over  my 
garage  with  a  stove  in  it  which  will  make  a 
very  snug  little  home  for  you  and  Christ- 


That  evening,  as  the  dog  and  his  master 
were  sitting  comfortably  by  the  stove  in 
their  new  home,  there  came  a  rap  at  the 
door.  In  a  moment,  Judge  Crooker  en 
tered  the  room. 

"Mr.  Blenkinsop,"  said  the  Judge  as  he 
held  out  his  hand,  "I  have  heard  of  your 
new  plans  and  I  want  you  to  know  that 
I  am  very  glad.  Every  one  will  be 
glad." 

When  the  Judge  had  gone,  Blenkinsop 
put  his  hand  on  the  dog's  head  and  asked 
with  a  little  laugh:  "Did  ye  hear  what  he 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

said,  Christmas?  He  called  me  Mister. 
Never  done  that  before,  no  sir!" 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  sat  with  his  head 
upon  his  hand  listening  to  the  wind  that 
whistled  mournfully  in  the  chimney.  Sud 
denly  he  shouted:  "Come  in!" 

The  door  opened  and  there  on  the 
threshold  stood  his  Old  Self. 

It  was  not  at  all  the  kind  of  a  Self  one 
would  have  expected  to  see.  It  was,  in 
deed,  a  very  youthful  and  handsome  Self — 
the  figure  of  a  clear-eyed,  gentle-faced  boy 
of  about  sixteen  with  curly,  dark  hair 
above  his  brows. 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  covered  his  face  and 
groaned.  Then  he  held  out  his  hands  with 
an  imploring  gesture. 

"I  know  you,"  he  whispered.  "Please 
come  in." 

"Not  yet,"  the  young  man  answered, 
and  his  voice  was  like  the  wind  in  the 
chimney.  "But  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
that  I,  too,  am  glad." 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Then  lie  vanished. 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  arose  from  his  chair  and 
rubbed  his  eyes. 

"Christmas,  ol'  boy,  I've  been  asleep," 
he  mattered.  "I  guess  it's  time  we  turned 
in!" 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

IN  WHICH  MB.  ISKAEL  SNEED  AND  OTHEB 

WORKING  MEN  RECEIVE  A  LESSON  IN 

TRUE  DEMOCRACY 

NEXT  morning,  Mr.  Blenkinsop  went 
to  cut  wood  for  the  Widow  Moran. 
The  good  woman  was  amazed  by  his  highly 
respectable  appearance. 

"God  help  us!  Ye  look  like  a  lawyer," 
she  said. 

"I'm  a  new  man!  Cut  out  the  black 
smith  shop  an'  the  booze  an'  the  bum 
mers." 

"May  the  good  God  love  an'  help  ye!  I 
heard  about  it." 

"Ye  did?" 

"Sure  I  did.  It's  all  over  the  town. 
Good  news  has  a  lively  foot,  man.  The 
Shepherd  clapped  his  hands  when  I  told 
91 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

him.  Ye  got  to  go  straight,  my  laddie 
buck.  All  eyes  are  on  ye  now.  Come  up 
an'  see  the  boy.  It's  his  birthday!" 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  was  deeply  moved  by  the 
greeting  of  the  little  Shepherd,  who  kissed 
his  cheek  and  said  that  he  had  often 
prayed  for  him. 

"If  you  ever  get  lonely,  come  and  sit 
with  me  and  we'll  have  a  talk  and  a  game 
of  dominoes,"  said  the  boy. 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  got  strength  out  of  the 
wonderful  spirit  of  Bob  Moran  and  as  he 
swung  his  axe  that  day,  he  was  happier 
than  he  had  been  in  many  years.  Men  and 
women  who  passed  in  the  street  said, 
"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Blenkinsop?  I'm 
glad  to  see  you/' 

Even  the  dog  Christmas  watched  his 
master  with  a  look  of  pride  and  approval. 
Now  and  then,  he  barked  gleefully  and 
scampered  up  and  down  the  sidewalk. 

The  Shepherd  was  fourteen  years  old. 
On  his  birthday,  from  morning  until  night, 
92 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

people  came  to  his  room  bringing  little 
gifts  to  remind  him  of  their  affection.  No 
one  in  the  village  of  Bingville  was  so  much 
beloved.  Judge  Crooker  came  in  the  eve 
ning  with  ice-cream  and  a  frosted  cake. 
While  he  was  there,  a  committee  of  citi 
zens  sought  him  out  to  confer  with  him  re 
garding  conditions  in  Bingville. 

"  There  ?s  more  money  than  ever  in  the 
place,  but  there  never  was  so  much  mis 
ery,"  said  the  chairman  of  the  committee. 

"We  have  learned  that  money  is  not 
the  thing  that  makes  happiness,'7  Judge 
Crooker  began.  "With  every  one  busy  at 
high  wages,  and  the  banks  overflowing 
with  deposits,  we  felt  safe.  We  ceased  to 
produce  the  necessaries  of  life  in  a  suffi 
cient  quantity.  We  forgot  that  the  all  im 
portant  things  are  food,  fuel,  clothes  and 
comfortable  housing — not  money.  Some  of 
us  went  money  mad.  With  a  feeling  of  op 
ulence  we  refused  to  work  at  all,  save  when 
we  felt  like  it.  We  bought  diamond  rings 
93 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

and  sat  by  the  fire  looking  at  them.  The 
roofs  began  to  leak  and  our  plumbing  went 
wrong.  People  going  to  buy  meat  found 
the  shops  closed.  Roofs  that  might  have 
been  saved  by  timely  repairs  will  have  to 
be  largely  replaced.  Plumbing  systems 
have  been  ruined  by  neglect.  With  all  its 
money,  the  town  was  never  so  poverty- 
stricken,  the  people  never  so  wretched." 

Mr.  Sneed,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
committee,  slyly  turned  the  ring  on  his 
finger  so  that  the  diamond  was  concealed. 
He  cleared  his  throat  and  remarked,  "We 
mechanics  had  more  than  we  could  do  on 
work  already  contracted. ' ' 

"Yes,  you  worked  eight  hours  a  day  and 
refused  to  work  any  longer.  You  were 
legally  within  your  rights,  but  your  posi 
tion  was  ungrateful  and  even  heartless 
and  immoral.  Suppose  there  were  a  baby 
coming  at  your  house  and  you  should  call 
for  the  doctor  and  he  should  say,  'I'm 
sorry,  but  I  have  done  my  eight  hours' 
94 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

work  to-day  and  I  can't  help  you.'  Then 
suppose  you  should  offer  him  a  double  fee 
and  he  should  say,  'No,  thanks,  I'm  tired. 
I've  got  forty  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank 
and  I  don't  have  to  work  when  I  don't 
want  to.' 

"Or  suppose  I  were  trying  a  case  for 
you  and,  when  my  eight  hours'  work 
had  expired,  I  should  walk  out  of  the  court 
and  leave  your  case  to  take  care  of  itself. 
What  do  you  suppose  would  become  of  it? 
Yet  that  is  exactly  what  you  did  to  my 
pipes.  You  left  them  to  take  care  of  them 
selves.  You  men,  who  use  your  hands, 
make  a  great  mistake  in  thinking  that  you 
are  the  workers  of  the  country  and  that 
the  rest  of  us  are  your  natural  enemies.  In 
America,  we  are  all  workers !  The  idle  man 
is  a  mere  parasite  and  not  at  heart  an 
American.  Generally,  I  work  fifteen  hours 
a  day. 

"This  little  lad  has  been  knitting 
night  and  day  for  the  soldiers  without 
95 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

hope  of  reward  and  has  spent  his  savings 
for  yarn.  There  isn't  a  doctor  in  Bingville 
who  isn't  working  eighteen  hours  a  day.  I 
met  a  minister  this  afternoon  who  hasn't 
had  ten  hours  of  sleep  in  a  week — he's 
been  so  busy  with  the  sick,  and  the  dying 
and  the  dead.  He  is  a  nurse,  a  friend,  a 
comforter  to  any  one  who  needs  him.  No 
charge  for  overtime.  My  God!  Are  we  all 
going  money  mad?  Are  you  any  better 
than  he  is,  or  I  am,  or  than  these  doctors 
are  who  have  been  killing  themselves  with 
overwork?  Do  you  dare  to  tell  me  that 
prosperity  is  any  excuse  for  idleness  in 
this  land  of  ours,  if  one's  help  is  needed?" 
Judge  Crooker's  voice  had  been  calm, 
his  manner  dignified.  But  the  last  sen 
tences  had  been  spoken  with  a  quiet  stern 
ness  and  with  his  long,  bony  forefinger 
pointing  straight  at  Mr.  Sneed.  The  other 
members  of  the  committee  clapped  their 
hands  in  hearty  approval.  Mr.  Sneed 
smiled  and  brushed  his  trousers. 
96 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  said. 
"We're  all  off  our  balance  a  little,  but 
what  is  to  be  done  now?" 

"We  must  quit  our  plumbing  and  car 
pentering  and  lawyering  and  banking  and 
some  of  us  must  quit  merchandising  and 
sitting  in  the  chimney  corner  and  grab  our 
saws  and  axes  and  go  out  into  the  woods 
and  make  some  fuel  and  get  it  hauled  into 
town,"  said  Judge  Crooker.  "I'll  be 
one  of  a  party  to  go  to-morrow  with 
my  axe.  I  haven't  forgotten  how  to 
chop." 

The  committee  thought  this  a  good  sug 
gestion.  They  all  rose  and  started  on  a 
search  for  volunteers,  except  Mr.  Sneed. 
He  tarried  saying  to  the  Judge  that  he 
wished  to  consult  him  on  a  private  matter. 
It  was,  indeed,  just  then,  a  matter  which 
could  not  have  been  more  public  although, 
so  far,  the  news  of  it  had  traveled  in  whis 
pers.  The  Judge  had  learned  the  facts 
since  his  return. 

97 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  hope  your  plumbing  hasn't  gone 
wrong, ' '  he  remarked  with  a  smile. 

"No,  it's  worse  than  that,"  said  Mr. 
Sneed  ruefully. 

They  bade  the  little  Shepherd  good 
night  and  went  down-stairs  where  the 
widow  was  still  at  work  with  her  washing, 
although  it  was  nine  o  'clock. 

"Faithful  woman!"  the  Judge  ex 
claimed  as  they  went  out  on  the  street. 
* '  What  would  the  world  do  without  people 
like  that?  No  extra  charge  for  overtime 
either." 

Then,  as  they  walked  along,  he  cun 
ningly  paved  the  way  for  what  he  knew 
was  coming. 

"Did  you  notice  the  face  of  that  boy?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  it's  a  wonderful  face,"  said  Israel 
Sneed. 

"It's  a  God's  blessing  to  see  a  face  like 
that,"  the  Judge  went  on.  "Only  the  pure 
in  heart  can  have  it.  The  old  spirit  of 
98 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

youth  looks  out  of  his  eyes — the  spirit  of 
my  own  youth.  When  I  was  fourteen,  I 
think  that  my  heart  was  as  pure  as  his.  So 
were  the  hearts  of  most  of  the  boys  I 
knew. ' ' 

"It  isn't  so  now,"  said  Mr.  Sneed. 

"I  fear  it  isn't,"  the  Judge  answered. 
"There's  a  new  look  in  the  faces  of  the 
young.  Every  variety  of  evil  is  spread  be 
fore  them  on  the  stage  of  our  little  theater. 
They  see  it  while  their  characters  are  in 
the  making,  while  their  minds  are  like 
white  wax.  Everything  that  touches  them 
leaves  a  mark  or  a  smirch.  It  addresses 
them  in  the  one  language  they  all  under 
stand,  and  for  which  no  dictionary  is 
needed — pictures.  The  flower  of  youth 
fades  fast  enough,  God  knows,  without  the 
withering  knowledge  of  evil.  They  say  it's 
good  for  the  boys  and  girls  to  know  all 
about  life.  We  shall  see!" 

Mr.  Sneed  sat  down  with  Judge  Crooker 
99 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

in  the  handsome  library  of  the  latter  and 
opened  his  heart.  His  son  Richard,  a  boy 
of  fifteen,  and  three  other  lads  of  the  vil 
lage,  had  been  committing  small  burglar 
ies  and  storing  their  booty  in  a  cave  in  a 
piece  of  woods  on  the  river  bank  near  the 
village.  A  constable  had  secured  a  confes 
sion  and  recovered  a  part  of  the  booty. 
Enough  had  been  found  to  warrant  a 
charge  of  grand  larceny  and  Elisha  Potts, 
whose  store  had  been  entered,  was  clamor 
ing  for  the  arrest  of  the  boys. 

"It  reminds  me  of  that  picture  of  the 
Robbers '  Cave  that  was  on  the  billboard  of 
our  school  of  crime  a  few  weeks  ago," 
said  the  Judge.  "I'm  tired  enough  to  lie 
down,  but  I'll  go  and  see  Elisha  Potts.  If 
he's  abed,  he'll  have  to  get  up,  that's  all. 
There's  no  telling  what  Potts  has  done  or 
may  do.  Your  plumbing  is  in  bad  shape, 
Mr.  Sneed.  The  public  sewer  is  backing 
into  your  cellar  and  in  a  case  of  that  kind 
the  less  delay  the  better." 
100 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

He  went  into  the  hall  and  put  on  his 
coat  and  gloves  and  took  his  cane  out  of 
the  rack.  He  was  sixty-five  years  of  age 
that  winter.  It  was  a  bitter  night  when 
even  younger  men  found  it  a  trial  to  leave 
the  comfort  of  the  fireside.  Sneed  fol 
lowed  in  silence.  Indeed,  his  tongue  was 
shame-bound.  For  a  moment,  he  knew  not 
what  to  say. 

"I — I'm  much  o-obliged  to  you,"  he 
stammered  as  they  went  out  into  the  cold 
wind.  "I — I  don't  care  what  it  costs, 
either." 

The  Judge  stopped  and  turned  toward 
him. 

' '  Look  here, ' '  he  said.  * '  Money  does  not 
enter  into  this  proceeding  or  any  motive 
but  the  will  to  help  a  neighbor.  In  such  a 
matter  overtime  doesn't  count." 

They  walked  in  silence  to  the  corner. 
There  Sneed  pressed  the  Judge 's  hand  and 
tried  to  say  something,  but  his  voice  failed 
him, 

101 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"Have  the  boys  at  my  office  at  ten 
o  'clock  to-morrow  morning.  I  want  to  talk 
to  them, ' '  said  the  kindly  old  Judge  as  he 
strode  away  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

IN  WHICH  J.  PATTERSON  BING  BUYS  A 
NECKLACE  OF  PEARLS 

MEANWHILE,  the  Bings  had  been 
having  a  busy  winter  in  New  York. 
J.  Patterson  Bing  had  been  elected  to  the 
board  of  a  large  bank  in  Wall  Street.  His 
fortune  had  more  than  doubled  in  the  last 
two  years  and  he  was  now  a  considerable 
factor  in  finance. 

Mrs.  Bing  had  been  studying  current 
events  and  French  and  the  English  accent 
and  other  social  graces  every  morning, 
with  the  best  tutors,  as  she  reclined  com 
fortably  in  her  bedchamber  while  Phyllis 
went  to  sundry  shops.  Mrs.  Crooker  had 
once  said,  "Mamie  Bing  has  a  passion  for 
self-improvement."  It  was  mainly  if  not 
quite  true. 

Phyllis  had  been  "beating  the  bush" 
103 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

with  her  mother  at  teas  and  dinners  and 
dances  and  theaters  and  country  house 
parties  in  and  about  the  city.  The  speed 
ometer  on  the  limousine  had  doubled  its 
mileage  since  they  came  to  town.  They 
were,  it  would  seem,  a  tireless  pair  of  hunt 
ers.  Phyllis 's  portrait  had  appeared  in 
the  Sunday  papers.  It  showed  a  face  and 
form  of  unusual  beauty.  The  supple  grace 
and  classic  outlines  of  the  latter  were 
touchingly  displayed  at  the  dances  in 
many  a  handsome  ballroom.  At  last,  they 
had  found  a  promising  and  most  eligible 
candidate  in  Eoger  Delane — a  handsome 
stalwart  youth,  a  year  out  of  college.  His 
father  was  a  well-known  and  highly  suc 
cessful  merchant  of  an  old  family  which, 
for  generations,  had  "belonged" — that  is 
to  say,  it  had  been  a  part  of  the  aristocracy 
of  Fifth  Avenue. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  this  great 
good  luck  of  theirs — better,  indeed,  than 
Mrs.   Bing  had  dared  to  hope   for — the 
104 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

young  man  having  seriously  confided  his 
intentions  to  J.  Patterson.  But  there  was 
one  shadow  on  the  glowing  prospect; 
Phyllis  had  suddenly  taken  a  bad  turn. 
She  moped,  as  her  mother  put  it.  She  was 
listless  and  unhappy.  She  had  lost  her  in 
terest  in  the  chase,  so  to  speak.  She  had 
little  heart  for  teas  and  dances  and  dinner 
parties.  One  day,  her  mother  returned 
from  a  luncheon  and  found  her  weeping. 
Mrs.  Bing  went  at  once  to  the  telephone 
and  called  for  the  stomach  specialist.  He 
came  and  made  a  brief  examination  and 
said  that  it  was  all  due  to  rich  food  and 
late  hours.  He  left  some  medicine,  advised 
a  day  or  two  of  rest  in  bed,  charged  a  hun 
dred  dollars  and  went  away.  They  tried 
the  remedies,  but  Phyllis  showed  no  im 
provement.  The  young  man  sent  Ameri 
can  Beauty  roses  and  a  graceful  note  of 
regret  to  her  room. 

"You  ought  to  be  very  happy,"  said  her 
mother.   "He  is  a  dear.'1 
105 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  know  it,"  Phyllis  answered.  "He's 
just  the  most  adorable  creature  I  ever  saw 
in  my  life." 

"For  goodness '  sake!  What  is  the  mat 
ter  of  you?  Why  don't  you  brace  up?" 
Mrs.  Bing  asked  with  a  note  of  impa 
tience  in  her  tone.  "You  act  like  a  dead 
fish." 

Phyllis,  who  had  been  lying  on  the 
couch,  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  and  flung 
one  of  the  cushions  at  her  mother,  and 
rather  swiftly. 

"How  can  I  brace  up?"  she  asked  with 
indignation  in  her  eyes.  "Don't  you  dare 
to  scold  me." 

There  was  a  breath  of  silence  in  which 
the  two  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Many  thoughts  came  flashing  into  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Bing.  Why  had  the  girl 
spoken  the  word  '  *  you ' '  so  bitterly  ?  Little 
echoes  of  old  history  began  to  fill  the  si 
lence.  She  arose  and  picked  up  the  cushion 
and  threw  it  on  the  sofa. 
106 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"What  a  temper!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Young  lady,  you  don't  seem  to  know  that 
these  days  are  very  precious  for  you. 
They  will  not  come  again." 

Then,  in  the  old  fashion  of  women  who 
have  suddenly  come  out  of  a  moment  of 
affectionate  anger,  they  fell  to  weeping  in 
each  other's  arms.  The  storm  was  over 
when  they  heard  the  feet  of  J.  Patterson 
Bing  in  the  hall.  Phyllis  fled  into  the  bath 
room. 

"Hello!"  said  Mr.  Bing  as  he  entered 
the  door.  "I've  found  out  what's  the  mat 
ter  with  Phyllis.  It's  nerves.  I  met  the 
great  specialist,  John  Hamilton  Gibbs,  at 
luncheon  to-day.  I  described  the  symp 
toms.  He  says  it 's  undoubtedly  nerves.  He 
has  any  number  of  cases  just  like  this  one 
— rest,  fresh  air  and  a  careful  diet  are  all 
that's  needed.  He  says  that  if  he  can  have 
her  for  two  weeks,  he'll  guarantee  a  cure. 
I've  agreed  to  have  you  take  her  to  his 
sanitarium  in  the  Catskills  to-morrow.  He 
107 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

has  saddle  horses,  sleeping  balconies,  to 
boggan  slides,  snow-shoe  and  skating  par 
ties  and  all  that." 

"I  think  it  will  be  great,"  said  Phyllis, 
who  suddenly  emerged  from  her  hiding- 
place  and  embraced  her  father.  "I'd  love 
it!  I'm  sick  of  this  old  town.  I'm  sure  it's 
just  what  I  need." 

"I  couldn't  go  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs. 
Bing.  "I  simply  must  go  to  Mrs.  Delane's 
luncheon." 

"Then  I'll  ask  Harriet  to  go  up  with 
her,"  said  J.  Patterson. 

Harriet,  who  lived  in  a  flat  on  the  upper 
west  side,  was  Mr.  Bing's  sister. 

Phyllis  went  to  bed  dinnerless  with  a 
headache.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bing  sat  for  a 
long  time  over  their  coffee  and  cigar 
ettes. 

"It's  something  too  dreadful  that  Phyl 
lis  should  be  getting  sick  just  at  the  wrong 
time,"  said  the  madame.  "She  has  always 
been  well.  I  can't  understand  it." 
108 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

" She's  had  a  rather  strenuous  time 
here, ' '  said  J.  Patterson. 

"But  she  seemed  to  enjoy  it  until — until 
the  right  man  came  along.  The  very  man 
I  hoped  would  like  her!  Then,  suddenly, 
she  throws  up  her  hands  and  keels  over. 
It's  too  devilish  for  words." 

Mr.  Bing  laughed  at  his  wife's  exaspera 
tion. 

"To  me,  it's  no  laughing  matter,"  said 
she  with  a  serious  face. 

"Perhaps  she  doesn't  like  the  boy,"  J. 
Patterson  remarked. 

Mrs.  Bing  leaned  toward  him  and  whis 
pered:  "She  adores  him!"  She  held  her 
attitude  and  looked  searchingly  into  her 
husband's  face. 

"Well,  you  can't  say  I  did  it,"  he  an 
swered.  *  *  The  modern  girl  is  a  rather  deli 
cate  piece  of  machinery.  I  think  she'll  be 
all  right  in  a  week  or  two.  Come,  it's 
time  we  went  to  the  theater  if  we're 
going." 

109 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Nothing  more  was  said  of  the  matter. 
Next  morning  immediately  after  break 
fast,  "Aunt  Harriet"  set  out  with  Phyllis 
in  the  big  limousine  for  Doctor  Gibbs '  san 
itarium. 

Phyllis  found  the  remedy  she  needed  in 
the  ceaseless  round  of  outdoor  frolic.  Her 
spirit  washed  in  the  glowing  air  found  re 
freshment  in  the  sleep  that  follows  weari 
ness  and  good  digestion.  Her  health  im 
proved  so  visibly  that  her  stay  was  far 
prolonged.  It  was  the  first  week  of  May 
when  Mrs.  Bing  drove  up  to  get  her.  The 
girl  was  in  perfect  condition,  it  would 
seem.  No  rustic  maid,  in  all  the  mountain 
valleys,  had  lighter  feet  or  clearer  eyes  or 
a  more  honest,  ruddy  tan  in  her  face  due 
to  the  touch  of  the  clean  wind.  She  had 
grown  as  lithe  and  strong  as  a  young  pan 
ther. 

They  were  going  back  to  Bingville  next 
day.  Martha  and  Susan  had  been  getting 
110 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  house  ready.  Mrs.  Bing  had  been  pre 
paring  what  she  fondly  hoped  would  be  ' '  a 
lovely  surprise"  for  Phyllis.  Roger  De- 
lane  was  coming  up  to  spend  a  quiet  week 
with  the  Bings — a  week  of  opportunity  for 
the  young  people  with  saddle  horses  and  a 
new  steam  launch  and  a  Peterborough 
canoe  and  all  pleasant  accessories.  Then, 
on  the  twentieth,  which  was  the  birthday  of 
Phyllis,  there  was  to  be  a  dinner  and  a 
house  party  and  possibly  an  announcement 
and  a  pretty  wagging  of  tongues.  Indeed, 
J.  Patterson  had  already  bought  the  wed 
ding  gift,  a  necklace  of  pearls,  and  paid  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  for  it  and  put  it 
away  in  his  safe.  The  necklace  had  pleased 
him.  He  had  seen  many  jewels,  but  noth 
ing  so  satisfying — nothing  that  so  well  ex 
pressed  his  affection  for  his  daughter.  He 
might  never  see  its  like  again.  So  he 
bought  it  against  the  happy  day  which  he 
hoped  was  near.  He  had  shown  it  to  his 
wife  and  charged  her  to  make  no  mention 
111 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

of  it  until  "the  time  was  ripe,"  in  his  way 
of  speaking. 

Mrs.  Bing  had  promised  on  her  word 
and  honor  to  respect  the  confidence  of  her 
husband,  with  all  righteous  intention,  but 
on  the  very  day  of  their  arrival  in  Bing- 
ville,  Sophronia  (Mrs.  Pendleton)  Ames 
called.  Sophronia  was  the  oldest  and 
dearest  friend  that  Mamie  Bing  had  in  the 
village.  The  latter  enjoyed  her  life  in  New 
York,  but  she  felt  always  a  thrill  at  com 
ing  back  to  her  big  garden  and  the  green 
trees  and  the  ample  spaces  of  Bingville, 
and  to  the  ready,  sympathetic  confidence 
of  Sophronia  Ames.  She  told  Sophronia 
of  brilliant  scenes  in  the  changing  spectacle 
of  metropolitan  life,  of  the  wonderful 
young  man  and  the  untimely  affliction  of 
Phyllis,  now  happily  past.  Then,  in  a 
whisper,  while  Sophronia  held  up  her  right 
hand  as  a  pledge  of  secrecy,  she  told  of  the 
necklace  of  which  the  lucky  girl  had  no 
knowledge.  Now  Mrs.  Ames  was  one  of 
112 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  best  of  women.  People  were  wont  to 
speak  of  her,  and  rightly,  as  "the  salt  of 
the  earth. ' '  She  would  do  anything  possi 
ble  for  a  friend.  But  Mamie  Bing  had 
asked  too  much.  Moreover,  always  it  had 
been  understood  between  them  that  these 
half  playful  oaths  were  not  to  be  taken  too 
seriously.  Of  course,  "the  fish  had  to  be 
fed,"  as  Judge  Crooker  had  once  put  it. 
By  "the  fish,"  he  meant  that  curious  un 
der-life  of  the  village — the  voracious,  si 
lent,  merciless,  cold-blooded  thing  which 
fed  on  the  sins  and  follies  of  men  and 
women  and  which  rarely  came  to  the  sur 
face  to  bother  any  one. 

"The  fish  are  very  wise,"  Judge 
Crooker  used  to  say.  "They  know  the 
truth  about  every  one  and  it's  well  that 
they  do.  After  all,  they  perform  an  im 
portant  office.  There's  many  a  man  and 
woman  who  think  they've  been  fooling 
the  fish  but  they've  only  fooled  them 
selves." 

113 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

And  within  a  day  or  two,  the  secrets  of 
the  Bing  family  were  swimming  up  and 
down  the  stream  of  the  under-life  of  Bing- 
ville. 

Mr.  Bing  had  found  a  situation  in  the 
plant  which  was  new  to  him.  The  men 
were  discontented.  Their  wages  were 
"sky  high,"  to  quote  a  phrase  of  one  of 
the  foremen.  Still,  they  were  not  satisfied. 
Eeports  of  the  fabulous  earnings  of  the 
mill  had  spread  among  them.  They  had 
begun  to  think  that  they  were  not  getting 
a  fair  division  of  the  proceeds  of  their 
labor.  At  a  meeting  of  the  help,  a  radical 
speaker  had  declared  that  one  of  the  Bing 
women  wore  a  noose  of  pearls  on  her  neck 
worth  half  a  million  dollars.  The  men 
wanted  more  pay  and  less  work.  A  com 
mittee  of  their  leaders  had  called  at  Mr. 
Bing's  office  with  a  demand  soon  after  his 
arrival.  Mr.  Bing  had  said  "no"  with  a 
bang  of  his  fist  on  the  table.  A  worker's 
114 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

meeting  was  to  be  held  a  week  later  to  act 
upon  the  report  of  the  committee. 

Meanwhile,  another  cause  of  worry  had 
come  or  rather  returned  to  him.  Again, 
Phyllis  had  begun  to  show  symptoms  of 
the  old  trouble.  Mrs.  Bing,  arriving  at 
dusk  from  a  market  trip  to  Hazelmead 
with  Sophronia  Ames,  had  found  Phyllis 
lying  asleep  among  the  cushions  on  the 
great  couch  in  the  latter 's  bedroom.  She 
entered  the  room  softly  and  leaned  over 
the  girl  and  looked  into  her  face,  now 
turned  toward  the  open  window  and 
lighted  by  the  fading  glow  in  the  western 
sky  and  relaxed  by  sleep.  It  was  a  sad 
face!  There  were  lines  and  shadows  in  it 
which  the  anxious  mother  had  not  seen  be 
fore  and — had  she  been  crying?  Very 
softly,  the  woman  sat  down  at  the  girl's 
side.  Darkness  fell.  Black,  menacing 
shadows  filled  the  corners  of  the  room. 
The  spirit  of  the  girl  betrayed  its  trouble 
in  a  sorrowful  groan  as  she  slept.  Eoger 
115 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Delane  was  coining  next  day.  There  was 
every  reason  why  Phyllis  should  be  happy. 
Silently,  Mrs.  Bing  left  the  room.  She  met 
Martha  in  the  hall. 

"I  shall  want  no  dinner  and  Mr.  Bing  is 
dining  in  Hazelmead,"  she  whispered. 
''Miss  Phyllis  is  asleep.  Don't  disturb 
her." 

Then  she  sat  down  in  the  darkness  of  her 
own  bedroom  alone. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

IN  WHICH  HIRAM  BLENKINSOP  HAS  A 
NUMBER  OF  ADVENTURES 

THE  Shepherd  of  the  Birds  had  caught 
the  plague  of  influenza  in  March  and 
nearly  lost  his  life  with  it.  Judge  Crooker 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Singleton  and  their 
daughter  and  Father  O'Neil  and  Mrs. 
Ames  and  Hiram  Blenkinsop  had  taken 
turns  in  the  nursing  of  the  boy.  He  had 
come  out  of  it  with  impaired  vitality. 

The  rubber  tree  used  to  speak  to  him 
in  those  days  of  his  depression  and  say, 
"It  will  be  summer  soon.'* 

"Oh  dear!  But  the  days  pass  so  slow 
ly,"  Bob  would  answer  with  a  sigh. 

Then  the  round  nickel  clock  would  say 
cheerfully,  "I  hurry  them  along  as  fast  as 
ever  I  can." 

117 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"  Seems  as  if  old  Time  was  losing  the 
use  of  Ms  legs,"  said  the  Shepherd.  "I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  some  one  had  run  over 
him  with  an  automobile.'* 

"  Everybody  is  trying  to  kill  Time 
these  days,"  ticked  the  clock  with  a  merry 
chuckle. 

Bob  looked  at  the  clock  and  laughed. 
61  You've  got  some  sense,"  he  declared. 

" Nonsense!"  the  clock  answered. 

"You  can  talk  pretty  well,"  said  the 
boy. 

"I  can  run  too.  If  I  couldn't,  nobody 
would  look  at  me." 

"The  more  I  look  at  you  the  more  I 
think  of  Pauline.  It's  a  long  time  since 
she  went  away,"  said  the  Shepherd.  "We 
must  all  pray  for  her." 

"Not  I,"  said  the  little  pine  bureau. 
"Do  you  see  that  long  scratch  on  my  side? 
She  did  it  with  a  hat  pin  when  I  belonged 
to  her  mother,  and  she  used  to  keep  her 
dolls  in  my  lower  drawer." 
118 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Mr.  Bloggs  assumed  a  look  of  great 
alertness  as  if  he  spied  the  enemy. 
" What's  the  use  of  worrying?"  he  quoted. 

"  You'd  better  lie  down  and  cover  your 
self  up  or  you'll  never  live  to  see  her  or 
the  summer  either,"  the  clock  warned  the 
Shepherd. 

Then  Bob  would  lie  down  quickly  and 
draw  the  clothes  over  his  shoulders  and 
sing  of  the  Good  King  Wenceslas  and  The 
First  Noel  which  Miss  Betsy  Singleton  had 
taught  him  at  Christmas  time. 

All  this  is  important  only  as  showing 
how  a  poor  lad,  of  a  lively  imagination, 
was  wont  to  spend  his  lonely  hours.  He 
needed  company  and  knew  how  to  find  it. 

Christmas  Day,  Judge  Crooker  had  pre 
sented  him  with  a  beautiful  copy  of  Ra 
phael's  Madonna  and  Child. 

"It's  the  greatest  theme  and  the  great 
est  picture  this  poor  world  of  ours  can 
boast  of,"  said  the  Judge.  "I  want  you 
to  study  the  look  in  that  mother's  face,  not 
119 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

that  it  is  unusual.  _  have  seen  the  like  of 
it  a  hundred  times.  Almost  every  young 
mother  with  a  child  in  her  arms  has  that 
look  or  ought  to  have  it — the  most  beauti 
ful  and  mysterious  thing  in  the  world. 
The  light  of  that  old  star  which  led  the 
wise  men  is  in  it,  I  sometimes  think.  Study 
it  and  you  may  hear  voices  in  the  sky  as 
did  the  shepherds  of  old." 

So  the  boy  acquired  the  companionship 
of  those  divine  faces  that  looked  down  at 
him  from  the  wall  near  his  bed  and  had 
something  to  say  to  him  every  day. 

Also,  another  friend — a  very  humble  one 
— had  begun  to  share  his  confidence.  He 
was  the  little  yellow  dog,  Christmas.  He 
had  come  with  his  master,  one  evening  in 
March,  to  spend  a  night  with  the  sick 
Shepherd.  Christmas  had  lain  on  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  felt  the  loving  caress  of  the 
boy.  He  never  forgot  it.  The  heart  of  the 
world,  that  loves  above  all  things  the 
touch  of  a  kindly  hand,  was  in  this  little 
120 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

creature.  Often,  when  Hiram  was  walking 
out  in  the  bitter  winds,  Christmas  would 
edge  away  when  his  master's  back  was 
turned.  In  a  jiffy,  he  was  out  of  sight  and 
making  with  all  haste  for  the  door  of  the 
Widow  Moran.  There,  he  never  failed 
to  receive  some  token  of  the  generous 
woman's  understanding  of  the  great  need 
of  dogs — a  bone  or  a  doughnut  or  a  slice 
of  bread  soaked  in  meat  gravy — and  a 
warm  welcome  from  the  boy  above  stairs. 
The  boy  always  had  time  to  pet  him  and 
play  with  him.  He  was  never  fooling  the 
days  away  with  an  axe  and  a  saw  in  the 
cold  wind.  Christmas  admired  his  mas 
ter's  ability  to  pick  up  logs  of  wood  and 
heave  them  about  and  to  make  a  great 
noise  with  an  axe  but,  in  cold  weather,  all 
that  was  a  bore  to  him.  When  he  had  been 
missing,  Hiram  Blenkinsop  found  him, 
always,  at  the  day's  end  lying  comfort 
ably  on  Bob  Moran 's  bed. 
May  had  returned  with  its  warm  sun- 
121 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

light.  The  robins  had  come  back.  The 
blue  martins  had  taken  possession  of  the 
bird  house.  The  grass  had  turned  green 
on  the  garden  borders  and  was  now 
sprinkled  with  the  golden  glow  of  dande 
lions.  The  leaves  were  coming  but  Pat 
Crowley  was  no  longer  at  work  in  the  gar 
den.  He  had  fallen  before  the  pestilence. 
Old  Bill  Eutherford  was  working  there. 
The  Shepherd  was  at  the  open  window 
every  day,  talking  with  him  and  watching 
and  feeding  the  birds. 

Now,  with  the  spring,  a  new  feeling  had 
come  to  Mr.  Hiram  Blenkinsop.  He  had 
been  sober  for  months.  His  Old  Self  had 
come  back  and  had  imparted  his  youthful 
strength  to  the  man  Hiram.  He  had  money 
in  the  bank.  He  was  decently  dressed. 
People  had  begun  to  respect  him.  Every 
day,  Hiram  was  being  nudged  and  worried 
by  a  new  thought.  It  persisted  in  tell 
ing  him  that  respectability  was  like  the 
122 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Fourth  of  July — a  very  dull  thing  unless  it 
was  celebrated.  He  had  been  greatly 
pleased  with  his  own  growing  respectabil 
ity.  He  felt  as  if  he  wanted  to  take  a  look 
at  it,  from  a  distance,  as  it  were.  That 
money  in  the  bank  was  also  nudging  and 
calling  him.  It  seemed  to  be  lonely  and 
longing  for  companionship. 

''Come,  Hiram  Blenkinsop,"  it  used  to 
say.  " Let's  go  off  together  and  get  a  silk 
hat  and  a  gold  headed  cane  an'  make  'em 
set  up  an'  take  notice.  Suppose  you  should 
die  sudden  an'  leave  me  without  an 
owner?" 

The  warmth  and  joy  of  the  springtime 
had  turned  his  fancy  to  the  old  dream.  So 
one  day,  he  converted  his  bank  balance 
into  "a  roll  big  enough  to  choke  a  dog," 
and  took  the  early  morning  train  to  Hazel- 
mead,  having  left  Christmas  at  the  Widow 
Moran's. 

In  the  mill  city  he  bought  a  high  silk  hat 
and  a  gold  headed  cane  and  a  new  suit  of 
123 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

clothes  and  a  boiled  shirt  and  a  high  col 
lar  and  a  red  necktie.  It  didn't  matter  to 
him  that  the  fashion  and  fit  of  his  gar 
ments  were  not  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
silk  hat  and  gold  headed  cane.  There 
were  three  other  items  in  the  old  dream  of 
splendor — the  mother,  the  prancing  team, 
and  the  envious  remarks  of  the  onlookers. 
His  mother  was  gone.  Also  there  were  no 
prancing  horses  in  Hazelmead,  but  he 
could  hire  an  automobile. 

In  the  course  of  his  celebration  he  asked 
a  lady,  whom  he  met  in  the  street,  if  she 
would  kindly  be  his  mother  for  a  day.  He 
meant  well  but  the  lady,  being  younger 
than  Hiram  and  not  accustomed  to  such 
familiarity  from  strangers,  did  not  feel 
complimented  by  the  question.  They  fled 
from  each  other.  Soon,  Hiram  bought  a 
big  custard  pie  in  a  bake-shop  and  had  it 
cut  into  smallish  pieces  and,  having  pur 
chased  pie  and  plate,  went  out  upon  the 
street  with  it.  He  ate  what  he  wanted  of 
124 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  pie  and  generously  offered  the  rest  of 
it  to  sundry  people  who  passed  him.  It 
was  not  impertinence  in  Hiram;  it  was 
pure  generosity — a  desire  to  share  his 
riches,  flavored,  in  some  degree,  by  a  feel 
ing  of  vanity.  It  happened  that  Mr.  J. 
Patterson  Bing  came  along  and  received  a 
tender  of  pie  from  Mr.  Blenkinsop. 

"No!"  said  Mr.  Bing,  with  that  old  ham 
mer  whack  in  his  voice  which  aroused  bit 
ter  memories  in  the  mind  of  Hiram. 

That  tone  was  a  great  piece  of  impru 
dence.  There  was  a  menacing  gesture  and 
a  rapid  succession  of  footsteps  on  the 
pavement.  Mr.  Bing's  retreat  was  not, 
however,  quite  swift  enough  to  save  him. 
The  pie  landed  on  his  shoulder.  In  a  mo 
ment,  Hiram  was  arrested  and  marching 
toward  the  lockup  while  Mr.  Bing  went  to 
the  nearest  drug  store  to  be  cleaned  and 
scoured. 

A   few   days   later   Hiram   Blenkinsop 
125 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

arrived  in  Bingville.  Mr.  Singleton  met 
him  on  the  street  and  saw  to  his  deep  re 
gret  that  Hiram  had  been  drinking. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  that  religion  is 
good  for  some  folks,  but  it  won't  do  for 
me,"  said  the  latter. 

"Why  not?"  the  minister  asked. 

"I  can't  afford  it." 

"Have  you  found  religion  a  luxury?" 
Mr.  Singleton  asked. 

"It's  grand  while  it  lasts,  but  it's  like 
p'ison  gettin'  over  it,"  said  Hiram.  "I 
feel  kind  o'  ruined." 

"You  look  it,"  said  the  minister,  with  a 
glance  at  Hiram's  silk  hat  and  soiled  cloth 
ing.  "A  long  spell  of  sobriety  is  hard  on 
a  man  if  he  quits  it  sudden.  You've  had 
your  day  of  trial,  my  friend.  We  all  have 
to  be  tried  soon  or  late.  People  begin  to 
say,  'At  last  he's  come  around  all  right. 
He's  a  good  fellow.'  And  the  Lord  says: 
'Perhaps  he's  worthy  of  better  things.  I'll 
try  him  and  see. ' 

126 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"That's  His  way  of  pushing  people 
along,  Hiram.  He  doesn't  want  them  to 
stand  still.  You've  had  your  trial  and 
failed,  but  you  mustn't  give  up.  When 
your  fun  turns  into  sorrow,  as  it  will,  come 
back  to  me  and  we  '11  try  again. ' ' 

Hiram  sat  dozing  in  a  corner  of  the  bar 
room  of  the  Eagle  Hotel  that  day.  He  had 
been  ashamed  to  go  to  his  comfortable 
room  over  the  garage.  He  did  not  feel  en 
titled  to  the  hospitality  of  Mr.  Singleton. 
Somehow,  he  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of 
going  there.  His  new  clothes  and  silk  hat 
were  in  a  state  which  excited  the  derision 
of  small  boys  and  audible  comment  from 
all  observers  while  he  had  been  making 
his  way  down  the  street.  His  money  was 
about  gone.  The  barkeeper  had  refused 
to  sell  him  any  more  drink.  In  the  early 
dusk  he  went  out-of-doors.  It  was  almost 
as  warm  as  midsummer  and  the  sky  was 
clear.  He  called  at  the  door  of  the  Widow 
127 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Moran  for  his  dog.  In  a  moment,  Christ 
mas  came  down  from  the  Shepherd's  room 
and  greeted  his  master  with  fond  affec 
tion.  The  two  went  away  together.  They 
walked  up  a  deserted  street  and  around  to 
the  old  graveyard.  When  it  was  quite 
dark,  they  groped  their  way  through  the 
weedy,  briered  aisles,  between  moss-cov 
ered  toppling  stones,  to  their  old  nook 
under  the  ash  tree.  There  Hiram  made  a 
bed  of  boughs,  picked  from  the  evergreens 
that  grew  in  the  graveyard,  and  lay  down 
upon  it  under  his  overcoat  with  the  dog 
Christmas.  He  found  it  impossible  to 
sleep,  however.  When  he  closed  his  eyes 
a  new  thought  began  nudging  him. 

It  seemed  to  be  saying,  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  now,  Mr.  Hiram  Blenkinsop  ? ' ' 

He  was  pleased  that  it  seemed  to  say  Mr. 
Hiram  Blenkinsop.  He  lay  for  a  long 
time  looking  up  at  the  starry  moonlit  sky, 
and  at  the  marble,  weather-spotted  angel 
on  the  monument  to  the  Eeverend  Thad- 
128 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

deus  Sneed,  who  had  been  lying  there, 
among  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  village, 
since  1806.  Suddenly  the  angel  began  to 
move.  Mr.  Blenkinsop  observed  with 
alarm  that  it  had  discovered  him  and  that 
its  right  forefinger  was  no  longer  directed 
toward  the  sky  but  was  pointing  at  his 
face.  The  angel  had  assumed  the  look  and 
voice  of  his  Old  Self  and  was  saying: 

"I  don't  see  why  angels  are  always  cut 
in  marble  an*  set  up  in  graveyards  with 
nothing  to  do  but  point  at  the  sky.  It's 
a  cold  an'  lonesome  business.  Why  don't 
you  give  me  a  jobl" 

His  Old  Self  vanished  and,  as  it  did  so, 
the  spotted  angel  fell  to  coughing  and 
sneezing.  It  coughed  and  sneezed  so 
loudly  that  the  sound  went  echoing  in  the 
distant  sky  and  so  violently  that  it  reeled 
and  seemed  to  be  in  danger  of  falling.  Mr. 
Blenkinsop  awoke  with  a  rude  jump  so  that 
the  dog  Christmas  barked  in  alarm.  It 
was  nothing  but  the  midnight  train  from 
129 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

the  south  pulling  out  of  the  station  which 
was  near  the  old  graveyard.  The  spotted 
angel  stood  firmly  in  its  place  and  was 
pointing  at  the  sky  as  usual. 

It  was  probably  an  hour  or  so  later, 
when  Mr.  Blenkinsop  was  awakened  by 
the  barking  of  the  dog  Christmas.  He 
quieted  the  dog  and  listened.  He  heard  a 
sound  like  that  of  a  baby  crying.  It  awoke 
tender  memories  in  the  mind  of  Hiram 
Blenkinsop.  One  very  sweet  recollection 
was  about  all  that  the  barren,  bitter  years 
of  his  young  manhood  had  given  him 
worth  having.  It  was  the  recollection  of  a 
little  child  which  had  come  to  his  home  in 
the  first  year  of  his  married  life. 

"She  lived  eighteen  months  and  three 
days  and  four  hours,"  he  used  to  say,  in 
speaking  of  her,  with  a  tender  note  in  his 
voice. 

Almost  twenty  years,  she  had  been  lying 
in  the  old  graveyard  near  the  ash  tree. 
Since  then  the  voice  of  a  child  crying 
130 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

always  halted  his  steps.  It  is  probable 
that,  in  her  short  life,  the  neglected, 
pathetic  child  Pearl — that  having  been  her 
name — had  protested  much  against  a 
plentiful  lack  of  comfort  and  sympathy. 

So  Mr.  Blenkinsop's  agitation  at  the 
sound  of  a  baby  crying  somewhere  near 
him,  in  the  darkness  of  the  old  graveyard, 
was  quite  natural  and  will  be  readily  un 
derstood.  He  rose  on  his  elbow  and  lis 
tened.  Again  he  heard  that  small,  appeal 
ing  voice. 

"By  thunder!  Christmas,"  he  whis 
pered.  "If  that  ain't  like  Pearl  when  she 
was  a  little,  teeny,  weeny  thing  no  big 
ger 'n  a  pint  o'  beer!  Say  it  is,  sir,  sure  as 
sin!" 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet,  suddenly,  for 
now,  also,  he  could  distinctly  hear  the 
voice  of  a  woman  crying.  He  groped  his 
way  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound 
came  and  soon  discovered  the  woman.  She 
was  kneeling  on  a  grave  with  a  child  in 
131 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

her  arms.  Her  grief  touched  the  heart  of 
the  man. 

1  'Who  be  you?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  cold,  and  my  baby  is  sick,  and  I 
have  no  friends, ' '  she  sobbed. 

"Yes,  ye  have!"  said  Hiram  Blenkinsop. 
"I  don't  care  who  ye  be.  I'm  yer  friend 
and  don't  ye  fergit  it." 

There  was  a  reassuring  note  in  the  voice 
of  Hiram  Blenkinsop.  Its  gentleness  had 
in  it  a  quiver  of  sympathy.  She  felt  it  and 
gave  to  him — an  unknown,  invisible  man, 
with  just  a  quiver  of  sympathy  in  his  voice 
— her  confidence 

If  ever  any  one  was  in  need  of  sympathy, 
she  was  at  that  moment.  She  felt  that  she 
must  speak  out  to  some  one.  So  keenly 
she  felt  the  impulse  that  she  had  been 
speaking  to  the  stars  and  the  cold  grave 
stones.  Here  at  last  was  a  human  being 
with  a  quiver  of  sympathy  in  his  voice. 

"I  thought  I  would  come  home,  but 
132 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

when  I  got  here  I  was  afraid,"  the  girl 
moaned.  ' '  I  wish  I  could  die. ' ' 

"No,  ye  don't  neither!"  said  Hiram 
Blenkinsop.  "Sometimes,  I've  thought 
that  I  hadn't  no  friends  an*  wanted  to  die, 
but  I  was  just  foolin'  myself.  To  be  sure, 
I  ain't  had  no  baby  on  my  hands  but  I've 
had  somethin'  just  as  worrisome,  I  guess. 
Folks  like  you  an'  me  has  got  friends 
a-plenty  if  we'll  only  give  'em  a  chance. 
I've  found  that  out.  You  let  me  take  that 
baby  an'  come  with  me.  I  know  where 
you'll  git  the  glad  hand.  You  ;ju,st  come 
right  along  with  me." 

The  unmistakable  note  of  sincerity  was 
in  the  voice  of  Hiram  Blenkinsop.  She 
gave  the  baby  into  his  arms.  He  held  it  to 
his  breast  a  moment  thinking  of  old  times. 
Then  he  swung  his  arms  like  a  cradle  say 
ing: 

"You  stop  your  hollerin* — ye  gol'darn 
little  skeezucks!  It  ain't  decent  to  go  on 
that  way  in  a  graveyard  an'  ye  ought  to 
133 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

know  it.  Be  ye  tryin'  to  wake  the 
dead?" 

The  baby  grew  quiet  and  finally  fell 
asleep. 

"Come  on,  now,"  said  Hiram,  with  the 
baby  lying  against  his  breast.  "You  an' 
me  are  goin'  out  o'  the  past.  I  know  a 
little  house  that's  next  door  to  Heaven. 
They  say  ye  can  see  Heaven  from  its  win 
ders.  It's  where  the  good  Shepherd  lives. 
Christmas  an'  I  know  the  place — don't  we, 
ol'  boy?  Come  right  along.  There  ain't  no 
kind  o'  doubt  o'  what  they'll  say  to  us." 

The  young  woman  followed  him  out  of 
the  old  graveyard  and  through  the  dark, 
deserted  streets  until  they  came  to  the  cot 
tage  of  the  Widow  Moran.  They  passed 
through  the  gate  into  Judge  Crocker's 
garden.  Under  the  Shepherd's  window, 
Hiram  Blenkinsop  gave  the  baby  to  its 
mother  and  with  his  hands  to  his  mouth 
called  "Bob!"  in  a  loud  whisper.  Sud- 
134 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

denly  a  robin  sounded  his  alarm.  In 
stantly,  the  Shepherd's  room  was  full  of 
light.  In  a  moment,  he  was  at  the  window 
sweeping  the  garden  paths  and  the  tree 
tops  with  his  search-light.  It  fell  on  the 
sorrowful  figure  of  the  young  mother  with 
the  child  in  her  arms  and  stopped.  She 
stood  looking  up  at  the  window  bathed  in 
the  flood  of  light.  It  reminded  the  Shep 
herd  of  that  glow  which  the  wise  men  saw 
in  the  manger  at  Bethlehem. 

"Pauline  Baker!"  he  exclaimed.  "Have 
you  come  back  or  am  I  dreaming?  It's 
you — thanks  to  the  Blessed  Virgin!  It's 
you!  Come  around  to  the  door.  My 
mother  will  let  you  in." 

It  was  a  warm  welcome  that  the  girl  re 
ceived  in  the  little  home  of  the  Widow 
Moran.  Many  words  of  comfort  and  good 
cheer  were  spoken  in  the  next  hour  or  so 
after  which  the  good  woman  made  tea  and 
toast  and  broiled  a  chop  and  served  them 
in  the  Shepherd's  room. 
135 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"God  love  ye,  child!  So  lie  was  a  mar 
ried  man — bad  'cess  to  him  an'  the  likes 
o '  him ! ' '  she  said  as  she  came  in  with  the 
tray.  "Mother  o*  Jesus!  What  a  wicked 
world  it  is ! " 

The  prudent  dog  Christmas,  being 
afraid  of  babies,  hid  under  the  Shep 
herd  's  bed,  and  Hiram  Blenkinsop  lay 
down  for  the  rest  of  the  night  on  the 
lounge  in  the  cottage  kitchen. 

An  hour  after  daylight,  when  the  Judge 
was  walking  in  his  garden,  he  wondered 
why  the  widow  and  the  Shepherd  were 
sleeping  so  late. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

IN  WHICH  HIGH  VOLTAGE  DEVELOPS  IN  THE 
CONVERSATION 

IT  WAS  a  warm,  bright  May  day. 
There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 
Roger  Delane  had  arrived  and  the  Bings 
were  giving  a  dinner  that  evening.  The 
best  people  of  Hazelmead  were  coming 
over  in  motor-cars.  Phyllis  and  Roger  had 
had  a  long  ride  together  that  day  on  the 
new  Kentucky  saddle  horses.  Mrs.  Bing 
had  spent  the  morning  in  Hazelmead  and 
had  stayed  to  lunch  with  Mayor  and  Mrs. 
Stacy.  She  had  returned  at  four  and  cut 
some  flowers  for  the  table  and  gone  to  her 
room  for  an  hour's  rest  when  the  young 
people  returned.  She  was  not  yet  asleep 
when  Phyllis  came  into  the  big  bedroom. 
Mrs.  Bing  lay  among  the  cushions  on  her 
137 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

couch.    She  partly  rose,  tumbled  the  cush 
ions  into  a  pile  and  leaned  against  them. 

"Heavens!  I'm  tired!"  she  exclaimed. 
"These  women  in  Hazelmead  hang  on  to 
one  like  a  lot  of  hungry  cats.  They  all 
want  money  for  one  thing  or  another — Red 
Cross  or  Liberty  bonds  or  fatherless  chil 
dren  or  tobacco  for  the  soldiers  or  books 
for  the  library.  My  word!  I'm  broke  and 
it  seems  as  if  each  of  my  legs  hung  by  a 
thread. ' ' 

Phyllis  smiled  as  she  stood  looking  down 
at  her  mother. 

"How  beautiful  you  look!"  the  fond 
mother  exclaimed.  "If  he  didn't  propose 
to-day,  he's  a  chump." 

"But  he  did,"  said  Phyllis.  "I  tried  to 
keep  him  from  it,  but  he  just  would  pro 
pose  in  spite  of  me." 

The  girl's  face  was  red  and  serious.  She 
sat  down  in  a  chair  and  began  to  remove 
her  hat.  Mrs.  Bing  rose  suddenly,  and 
stood  facing  Phyllis. 

138 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  thought  you  loved  him,"  she  said 
with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"So  I  do,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  What  did  you  say  I" 

"I  said  no." 

"What!" 

"I  refused  him!" 

"For  God's  sake,  Phyllis!  Do  you 
think  you  can  afford  to  play  with 
a  man  like  that?  He  won't  stand 
for  it." 

"Let  him  sit  for  it  then  and,  mother, 
you  might  as  well  know,  first  as  last,  that 
I  am  not  playing  with  him." 

There  was  a  calm  note  of  firmness  in  the 
voice  of  the  girl.  She  was  prepared  for 
this  scene.  She  had  known  it  was  coming. 
Her  mother  was  hot  with  irritating  aston 
ishment.  The  calmness  of  the  girl  in  sud 
denly  beginning  to  dig  a  grave  for  this 
dear  ambition — rich  with  promise — in  the 
very  day  when  it  had  come  submissively  to 
their  feet,  stung  like  the  tooth  of  a  ser- 
139 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

pent.  She  stood  very  erect  and  said  with 
an  icy  look  in  her  face : 

"You  young  upstart!  What  do  you 
mean?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  frigid  silence  in 
which  both  of  the  women  began  to  turn 
cold.  Then  Phyllis  answered  very  calmly 
as  she  sat  looking  down  at  the  bunch  of 
violets  in  her  hand: 

"It  means  that  I  am  married,  mother." 

Mrs.  Bing's  face  turned  red.  There  was 
a  little  convulsive  movement  of  the 
muscles  around  her  mouth.  She  folded  her 
arms  on  her  breast,  lifted  her  chin  a  bit 
higher  and  asked  in  a  polite  tone,  although 
her  words  fell  like  fragments  of  cracked 
ice: 

"Married!  To  whom  are  you  married?" 

"To  Gordon  King." 

Phyllis  spoke  casually  as  if  he  were  a 
piece  of  ribbon  that  she  had  bought  at  a 
store. 

Mrs.  Bing  sank  into  a  chair  and  covered 
140 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

her  face  with  her  hands  for  half  a  moment. 
Suddenly  she  picked  up  a  slipper  that  lay 
at  her  feet  and  flung  it  at  the  girl. 

"My  God!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  a 
nasty  liar  yon  are!" 

It  was  not  ladylike  but,  at  that  moment, 
the  lady  was  temporarily  absent. 

"Mother,  I'm  glad  you  say  that,"  the 
girl  answered  still  very  calmly,  although 
her  fingers  trembled  a  little  as  she  felt  the 
violets,  and  her  voice  was  not  quite  steady. 
1 1  It  shows  that  I  am  not  so  stupid  at  home 
as  I  am  at  school." 

The  girl  rose  and  threw  down  the  violets 
and  her  mild  and  listless  manner.  A  look 
of  defiance  filled  her  face  and  figure. 
Mrs.  Bing  arose,  her  eyes  aglow  with 
anger. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,"  she 
said  under  her  breath. 

"I  mean  that  if  I  am  a  liar,  you  taught 
me  how  to  be  it.  Ever  since  I  was  knee- 
high,  you  have  been  teaching  me  to  deceive 
141 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

my  father.  I  am  not  going  to  do  it  any 
longer.  I  am  going  to  find  my  father  and 
tell  him  the  truth.  I  shall  not  wait  another 
minute.  He  will  give  me  better  advice 
than  you  have  given,  I  hope. ' ' 

The  words  had  fallen  rapidly  from  her 
lips  and,  as  the  last  one  was  spoken,  she 
hurried  out  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Bing  threw 
herself  on  the  couch  where  she  lay  with 
certain  bitter  memories,  until  the  new 
maid  came  to  tell  her  that  it  was  time  to 
dress. 

She  was  like  one  reminded  of  mortality 
after  coming  out  of  ether. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  murmured  wearily.  "I 
feel  like  going  to  bed!  How  can  I  live 
through  that  dinner?  Please  bring  me 
some  brandy." 

Phyllis  learned  that  her  father  was  at 
his  office  whither  she  proceeded  without 
a  moment's  delay.  She  sent  in  word  that 
she  must  see  him  alone  and  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  He  dismissed  the  men  with  whom 
142 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

he  had  been  talking  and  invited  her  into 
his  private  office. 

"Well,  girl,  I  guess  I  know  what  is  on 
your  mind,"  he  said.  "Go  ahead." 

Phyllis  began  to  cry. 

"All  right!  You  do  the  crying  and  I'll 
do  the  talking,"  he  went  on.  "I  feel  like 
doing  the  crying  myself,  but  if  you  want 
the  job  I'll  resign  it  to  you.  Perhaps  you 
can  do  enough  of  that  for  both  of  us.  I 
began  to  smell  a  rat  the  other  day.  So  I 
sent  for  Gordon  King.  He  came  here  this 
morning.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  He 
told  me  the  truth.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
What's  the  good  of  having  a  father  unless 
you  use  him  at  times  when  his  counsel  is 
likely  to  be  worth  having?  I  would  have 
made  a  good  father,  if  I  had  had  half  a 
chance.  I  should  like  to  have  been  your 
friend  and  confidant  in  this  important  en 
terprise.  I  could  have  been  a  help  to  you. 
But,  somehow,  I  couldn't  get  on  the  board 
of  directors.  You  and  your  mother  have 
143 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

been  running  the  plant  all  by  yourselves 
and  I  guess  it's  pretty  near  bankrupt. 
Now,  my  girl,  there's  no  use  crying  over 
spilt  tears.  Gordon  King  is  not  the  man 
of  my  choice,  but  we  must  all  take  hold 
and  try  to  build  him  up.  Perhaps  we  can 
make  him  pay." 

"I  do  not  love  him,"  Phyllis  sobbed. 

"You  married  him  because  you  wanted 
to.  You  were  not  coerced?" 

"No,  sir." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  you'll  have  to  take  your 
share  of  the  crow  with  the  rest  of  us,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  note  of  sternness  in  his 
tone.  "My  girl,  when  I  make  a  contract 
I  live  up  to  it  and  I  intend  that  you  shall 
do  the  same.  You'll  have  to  learn  to  love 
and  cherish  this  fellow,  if  he  makes  it 
possible.  I'll  have  no  welching  in  my 
family.  You  and  your  mother  believe  in 
woman's  rights.  I  don't  object  to  that, 
but  you  mustn't  think  that  you  have  the 
right  to  break  your  agreements  unless 
144 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

there's  a  good  reason  for  it.  My  girl,  the 
marriage  contract  is  the  most  binding  and 
sacred  of  all  contracts.  I  want  you  to  do 
your  best  to  make  this  one  a  success." 

There  was  the  tinkle  of  the  telephone 
bell.  Mr.  Bing  put  the  receiver  to  his  ear 
and  spoke  into  the  instrument  as  follows: 

"Yes,  she's  here!  I  knew  all  the  facts 
before  she  told  me.  Mr.  Delane?  He's 
on  his  way  back  to  New  York.  Left  on 
the  six-ten.  Charged  me  to  present  his  re 
grets  and  farewells  to  you  and  Phyllis.  I 
thought  it  best  for  him  to  know  and  to  go. 
Yes,  we're  coming  right  home  to  dress. 
Mr.  King  will  take  Mr.  Delane's  place  at 
the  table.  We'll  make  a  clean  breast  of 
the  whole  business.  Brace  up  and  eat  your 
crow  with  a  smiling  face.  I  '11  make  a  little 
speech  and  present  Mr.  and  Mrs.  King  to 
our  friends  at  the  end  of  it.  Oh,  now,  cut 
out  the  sobbing  and  leave  this  unfinished 
business  to  me  and  don't  worry.  We'll 
be  home  in  three  minutes." 
145 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

IN  WHICH  JUDGE  CKOOKEB  DELIVEES  A  FEW 
OPINIONS 

THE  pride  of  Bingville  had  fallen  in 
the  dust!  It  had  arisen  and  gone 
on  with  soiled  garments  and  lowered  head. 
It  had  suffered  derision  and  defeat.  It 
could  not  ever  be  the  same  again.  Sneed 
and  Snodgrass  recovered,  in  a  degree,  from 
their  feeling  of  opulence.  Sneed  had  be 
come  polite,  industrious  and  obliging. 
Snodgrass  and  others  had  lost  heavily  in 
stock  speculation  through  the  failure  of  a 
broker  in  Hazelmead.  They  went  to  work 
with  a  will  and  without  the  haughty  in 
dependence  which,  for  a  time,  had  char 
acterized  their  attitude.  The  spirit  of  the 
Little  Shepherd  had  entered  the  hearts  and 
home  of  j  Emanuel  Baker  and  his  wife. 
146 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Pauline  and  the  baby  were  there  and  being 
tenderly  loved  and  cared  for.  But  what 
humility  had  entered  that  home!  Phyllis 
and  her  husband  lived  with  her  parents, 
Gordon  having  taken  a  humble  place  in 
the  mill.  He  worked  early  and  late.  The 
Bings  had  made  it  hard  for  him,  finding  it 
difficult  to  overcome  their  resentment,  but 
he  stood  the  gaff,  as  they  say,  and  won  the 
regard  of  J.  Patterson  although  Mrs.  Bing 
could  never  forgive  him. 

In  June,  there  had  been  a  public  meeting 
in  the  Town  Hall  addressed  by  Judge 
Crooker  and  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Singleton. 
The  Judge  had  spoken  of  the  grinding  of 
the  mills  of  God  that  was  going  on  the 
world  over. 

1 1  Our  civilization  has  had  its  time  of  trial 
not  yet  ended,"  he  began.  "Its  enemies 
have  been  busy  in  every  city  and  village. 
Not  only  in  the  cities  and  villages  of 
France  and  Belgium  have  they  been  busy, 
but  in  those  of  our  own  land.  The  Goths 
147 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

and  Vandals  have  invaded  Bingville. 
They  have  been  destroying  the  things  we 
loved.  The  false  god  is  in  our  midst. 
Many  here,  within  the  sound  of  my  voice, 
have  a  god  suited  to  their  own  tastes  and 
sins — an  obedient,  tractable,  boneless  god. 
It  is  my  deliberate  opinion  that  the  dances 
and  costumes  and  moving  pictures  we  have 
seen  in  Bingville  are  doing  more  injury 
to  Civilization  than  all  the  guns  of  Ger 
many.  My  friends,  you  can  do  nothing 
worse  for  my  daughter  than  deprive  her 
of  her  modesty  and  I  would  rather,  far 
rather,  see  you  slay  my  son  than  destroy 
his  respect  for  law  and  virtue  and  decency. 

"The  jazz  band  is  to  me  a  sign  of  spir 
itual  decay.  It  is  a  step  toward  the  jungle. 
I  hear  in  it  the  beating  of  the  tom-tom.  It 
is  not  music.  It  is  the  barbaric  yawp  of 
sheer  recklessness  and  daredevilism,  and 
it  is  everywhere. 

{ '  Even  in  our  economic  life  we  are  danc 
ing  to  the  jazz  band  and  with  utter  reck- 
148 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

lessness.  American  labor  is  being  more 
and  more  absorbed  in  the  manufacture  of 
luxuries — embroidered  frocks  and  elabo 
rate  millinery  and  limousines  and  lan- 
daulets  and  rich  upholstery  and  cord  tires 
and  golf  courses  and  sporting  goods  and 
great  country  houses — so  that  there  is  not 
enough  labor  to  provide  the  comforts  and 
necessities  of  life. 

"The  tendency  of  all  this  is  to  put  the 
stamp  of  luxury  upon  the  commonest  needs 
of  man.  The  time  seems  to  be  near  when 
a  boiled  egg  and  a  piece  of  buttered  bread 
will  be  luxuries  and  a  family  of  children 
an  unspeakable  extravagance.  Let  us  face 
the  facts.  It  is  up  to  Vanity  to  moderate 
its  demands  upon  the  industry  of  man. 
What  we  need  is  more  devotion  to  simple 
living  and  the  general  welfare.  In  plain 
old-fashioned  English  we  need  the  religion 
and  the  simplicity  of  our  fathers." 

Later,  in  June,  a  strike  began  in  the  big 
149 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

plant  of  J.  Patterson  Bing.  The  men  de 
manded  higher  pay  and  shorter  days. 
They  were  working  under  a  contract  but 
that  did  not  seem  to  matter.  In  a  fight 
with  ' '  scabs '  '  and  Pinkerton  men  they  de 
stroyed  a  part  of  the  plant.  Even  the  life 
of  Mr.  Bing  was  threatened !  The  summer 
was  near  its  end  when  J.  Patterson  Bing 
and  a  committee  of  the  labor  union  met  in 
the  office  of  Judge  Crooker  to  submit  their 
differences  to  that  impartial  magistrate 
for  adjustment.  The  Judge  listened  pa 
tiently  and  rendered  his  decision.  It  was 
accepted. 

When  the  papers  were  signed,  Mr.  Bing 
rose  and  said,  "Your  Honor,  there's  one 
thing  I  want  to  say.  I  have  spent  most  of 
my  life  in  this  town.  I  have  built  up  a 
big  business  here  and  doubled  the  popula 
tion.  I  have  built  comfortable  homes  for 
my  laborers  and  taken  an  interest  in  the 
education  of  their  children,  and  built  a 
library  where  any  one  could  find  the  best 
150 


THEi  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

books  to  read.  I  have  built  playgrounds 
for  the  children  of  the  working  people.  If 
I  have  heard  of  any  case  of  need,  I  have 
done  my  best  to  relieve  it.  I  have  always 
been  ready  to  hear  complaints  and  treat 
them  fairly.  My  men  have  been  generously 
paid  and  yet  they  have  not  hesitated  to 
destroy  my  property  and  to  use  guns  and 
knives  and  clubs  and  stones  to  prevent  the 
plant  from  filling  its  contracts  and  to  force 
their  will  upon  me.  How  do  you  explain  it? 
What  have  I  done  or  failed  to  do  that  has 
caused  this  bitterness?" 

"Mr.  Bing,  I  am  glad  that  you  ask  me 
that  question,"  the  old  Judge  began.  "It 
gives  me  a  chance  to  present  to  you,  and 
to  these  men  who  work  for  you,  a  convic 
tion  which  has  grown  out  of  impartial  ob 
servation  of  your  relations  with  each  other. 

"First,  I  want  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Bing, 
that  I  regard  you  as  a  good  citizen.  Your 
genius  and  generosity  have  put  this  com 
munity  under  great  obligation.  Now,  in 
151 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

heading  toward  the  hidden  cause  of  your 
complaint,  I  beg  to  ask  you  a  question  at 
the  outset.  Do  you  know  that  unfortunate 
son  of  the  Widow  Moran  known  as  the 
Shepherd  of  the  Birds?" 

"I  have  heard  much  about  him,"  Mr. 
Bing  answered. 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"No.  I  have  had  letters  from  him  ac 
knowledging  favors  now  and  then,  but  I 
do  not  know  him. ' ' 

"We  have  hit  at  once  the  source  of  your 
trouble,"  the  Judge  went  on.  "The  Shep 
herd  is  a  representative  person.  He  stands 
for  the  poor  and  the  unfortunate  in  this 
village.  You  have  never  gone  to  see  him 
because — well,  probably  it  was  because 
you  feared  that  the  look  of  him  would  dis 
tress  you.  The  thing  which  would  have 
helped  and  inspired  and  gladdened  his 
heart  more  than  anything  else  would  have 
been  the  feel  of  your  hand  and  a  kind  and 
cheering  word  and  sympathetic  counsel. 
152 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Under  those  circumstances,  I  think  I  may 
say  that  it  was  your  duty  as  a  neighbor  and 
a  human  being  to  go  to  see  him.  Instead 
of  that  you  sent  money  to  him.  Now,  he 
never  needed  money.  In  the  kindest  spirit, 
I  ask  you  if  that  money  you  sent  to  him 
in  the  best  of  good-will  was  not,  in  fact, 
a  species  of  bribery?  Were  you  not,  in 
deed,  seeking  to  buy  immunity  from  a  duty 
incumbent  upon  you  as  a  neighbor  and  a 
human  being?" 

Mr.  Bing  answered  quickly,  "  There  are 
plenty  of  people  who  have  nothing  else  to 
do  but  carry  cheer  and  comfort  to  the 
unfortunate.  I  have  other  things  to 
do." 

"That,  sir,  does  not  relieve  you  of  the 
liabilities  of  a  neighbor  and  a  human  being, 
in  my  view.  If  your  business  has  turned 
you  into  a  shaft  or  a  cog-wheel,  it  has 
done  you  a  great  injustice.  I  fear  that  it 
has  been  your  master — that  it  has  prac 
tised  upon  you  a  kind  of  despotism.  You 
153 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

would  better  get  along  with,  less — far  less 
business  than  suffer  such  a  fate.  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  you.  We  are  looking  for  the 
cause  of  a  certain  result  and  I  can  help  you 
only  by  being  frank.  With  all  your  gen 
erosity  you  have  never  given  your  heart 
to  this  village.  Some  unkind  people  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  you  have  no 
heart.  You  can  not  prove  it  with  money 
that  you  do  not  miss.  Money  is  good  but 
it  must  be  warmed  with  sympathy  and 
some  degree  of  sacrifice.  Has  it  never  oc 
curred  to  you  that  the  warm  hand  and 
the  cheering  word  in  season  are  more, 
vastly  more,  than  money  in  the  impor 
tant  matter  of  making  good- will?  Uncon 
sciously,  you  have  established  a  line  and 
placed  yourself  on  one  side  of  it  and  the 
people  on  the  other.  Broadly  speaking, 
you  are  capital  and  the  rest  are  labor. 
Whereas,  in  fact,  you  are  all  working  men. 
Some  of  the  rest  have  come  to  regard  you 
jas  their  natural  enemy.  They  ought  to 
154 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

regard  you  as  their  natural  friend.  Two 
kinds  of  despotism  have  prevented  it. 
First,  there  is  the  despotism  of  your  busi 
ness  in  making  you  a  slave — so  much  of  a 
slave  that  you  haven't  time  to  be  human; 
second,  there  is  the  despotism  of  the  labor 
union  in  discouraging  individual  excel 
lence,  in  demanding  equal  pay  for  the 
faithful  man  and  the  slacker,  and  in  deny 
ing  the  right  of  free  men  to  labor  when 
and  where  they  will.  All  this  is  tyranny  as 
gross  and  un-American  as  that  of  George 
the  Third  in  trying  to  force  his  will  upon 
the  colonies.  If  America  is  to  survive,  we 
must  set  our  faces  against  every  form  of 
tyranny.  The  remedy  for  all  our  trouble 
and  bitterness  is  real  democracy  which  is 
nothing  more  or  less  than  the  love  of  men 
— the  love  of  justice  and  fair  play  for  each 
and  all. 

"You  men  should  know  that  every  strike 
increases  the  burdens  of  the  people.    Every 
day  your  idleness  lifts  the  price  of  their 
155 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

necessities.  Idleness  is  just  another  form 
of  destruction.  Why  could  you  not  have 
listened  to  the  counsel  of  Reason  in  June 
instead  of  in  September,  and  thus  have 
saved  these  long  months  of  loss  and  hard 
ship  and  bitter  violence?  It  was  because 
the  spirit  of  Tyranny  had  entered  your 
heart  and  put  your  judgment  in  chains. 
It  had  blinded  you  to  honor  also,  for  your 
men  were  working  under  contract.  If  the 
union  is  to  command  the  support  of  honest 
men,  it  must  be  honest.  It  was  Tyranny 
that  turned  the  treaty  with  Belgium  into 
a  scrap  of  paper.  That  kind  of  a  thing 
will  not  do  here.  Let  me  assure  you  that 
Tyranny  has  no  right  to  be  in  this  land 
of  ours.  You  remind  me  of  the  Prodigal 
Son  who  had  to  know  the  taste  of  husks 
and  the  companionship  of  swine  before  he 
came  to  himself.  Do  you  not  know  that 
Tyranny  is  swine  and  the  fodder  of  swine  T 
It  is  simply  human  hoggishness. 
"I  have  one  thing  more  to  say  and  I  am 
156 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

finished.  Mr.  Bing,  some  time  ago  you 
threw  up  your  religion  without  realizing 
the  effect  that  such  an  act  would  be  likely 
to  produce  on  this  community.  You  are, 
no  doubt,  aware  that  many  followed  your 
example.  I've  got  no  preaching  to  do.  I'm 
just  going  to  quote  you  a  few  words  from 
an  authority  no  less  respectable  than 
George  Washington  himself.  Our  history 
has  made  one  fact  very  clear,  namely, 
that  he  was  a  wise  and  far-seeing 
man." 

Judge  Crooker  took  from  a  shelf,  John 
Marshall's  "Life  of  Washington,"  and 
read: 

"  'It  is  substantially  true  that  virtue  or 
morality  is  a  necessary  spring  of  popular 
government  and  let  us,  with  caution,  in 
dulge  the  supposition  that  morality  can  be 
maintained  without  religion. 

"  'Let  it  simply  be  asked  where  is  the 
security  for  property,  for  reputation,  for 
life,  if  a  sense  of  religious  obligation  de- 
157 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

sert  the  oaths  which  are  the  instruments 
of  investigation  in  courts  of  justice?' 

"Let  me  add,  on  my  own  account,  that 
the  treatment  you  receive  from  your  men 
will  vary  according  to  their  respect  for 
morality  and  religion. 

"They  could  manage  very  well  with  an 
irreligious  master,  for  you  are  only  one. 
But  an  irreligious  mob  is  a  different  and 
highly  serious  matter,  believe  me.  Away 
back  in  the  seventeenth  century,  John 
Dryden  wrote  a  wise  sentence.  It  was 
this: 

"  '/  have  heard,  indeed,  of  some  very 
virtuous  persons  who  have  ended  unfor 
tunately  but  never  of  a  virtuous  nation; 
Providence  is  engaged  too  deeply  when 
the  cause  becomes  general. 

"  'If  virtue  is  the  price  of  a  nation's 
life,  let  us  try  to  keep  our  own  nation 
virtuous.'  " 

Mr.  Bing  and  his  men  left  the  Judge's 
158 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

office  in  a  thoughtful  mood.  The  next  day, 
Judge  Crooker  met  the  mill  owner  on  the 
street. 

"Judge,  I  accept  your  verdict,"  said  the 
latter.  "I  fear  that  I  have  been  rather 
careless.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  that  my 
example  would  be  taken  so  seriously.  I 
have  been  a  prodigal  and  have  resolved  to 
return  to  my  father's  house." 

"Ho,  servants!"  said  the  Judge,  with  a 
smile.  "Bring  forth  the  best  robe  and  put 
it  on  him  and  put  a  ring  on  his  finger  and 
shoes  on  his  feet  and  bring  hither  the 
fatted  calf  and  kill  it  and  let  us  eat  and 
be  merry." 

"We  shall  have  to  postpone  the  celebra 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Bing.  "I  have  to  go  to 
New  York  to-night,  and  I  sail  for  England 
to-morrow.  But  I  shall  return  before 
Christmas." 

A  little  farther  on  Mr.  Bing  met  Hiram 
Blenkinsop.  The  latter  had  a  plank  on  his 
ghoulder. 

159 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  word  with  you," 
said  the  mill  owner  as  he  took  hold  of  the 
plank  and  helped  Hiram  to  ease  it  down. 
"I  hear  many  good  things  about  you,  Mr. 
Blenkinsop.  I  fear  that  we  have  all  mis 
judged  you.  If  I  have  ever  said  or  done 
anything  to  hurt  your  feelings,  I  am  sorry 
for  it." 

Hiram  Blenkinsop  looked  with  astonish 
ment  into  the  eyes  of  the  millionaire. 

"I — I  guess  I  ain't  got  you  placed  right 
— not  eggzac'ly,"  said  he.  "Some  folks 
ain't  as  good  as  they  look  an'  some  ain't 
as  bad  as  they  look.  I  wouldn't  wonder 
if  we  was  mostly  purty  much  alike,  come 
to  shake  us  down." 

"Let's  be  friends,  anyhow,"  said  Mr. 
Bing.  "If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for 
you,  let  me  know." 

That  evening,  as  he  sat  by  the  stove  in 

his  little  room  over  the  garage  of  Mr. 

Singleton  with  his  dog  Christmas  lying 

beside   him,   Mr.   Blenkinsop   fell   asleep 

160 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

and  awoke  suddenly  with  a  wild  yell  of 
alarm. 

"What's  the  matter? "  a  voice  inquired. 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  turned  and  saw  his  Old 
Self  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Nothin'  but  a  dream,"  said  Blenkin 
sop  as  he  wiped  his  eyes.  "Dreamed  I 
had  a  dog  with  a  terrible  thirst  on  him. 
Used  to  lead  him  around  with  a  rope  an* 
when  we  come  to  a  brook  he'd  drink  it 
dry.  Suddenly  I  felt  an  awful  jerk  on 
the  rope  that  sent  me  up  in  the  air  an'  I 
looked  an'  see  that  the  dog  had  turned  into 
an  elephant  an'  that  he  was  goin'  like  Sam 
Hill,  an'  that  I  was  hitched  to  him  and 
couldn't  let  go.  Once  in  a  while  he'd  stop 
an'  drink  a  river  dry  an'  then  he'd  lay 
down  an'  rest.  Everybody  was  scared  o' 
the  elephant  an'  so  was  I.  An'  I'd  try  to 
cut  the  rope  with  my  jack  knife  but  it 
wouldn't  cut — it  was  so  dull.  Then  all  of 
a  sudden  he'd  start  on  the  run  an*  twitch 
me  over  the  hills  an'  mountings,  an'  me 
161 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

takin'  steps  a  mile  long  an'  scared  to 
death.'' 

"The  fact  is  you're  hitched  to  an  ele 
phant,"  his  Old  Self  remarked.  "The 
first  thing  to  do  is  to  sharpen  your  jack 
knife." 

"It's  Night  an'  Silence  that  sets  him 
goiny  said  Blenkinsop.  "When  they 
come  he's  apt  to  start  for  the  nighest 
river.  The  old  elephant  is  beginnin'  to 
move." 

Blenkinsop  put  on  his  hat  and  hurried 
out  of  the  door. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

WHICH  TELLS  OF  A  MEBRY  CHEISTMAS  DAY 

IN  THE  LITTLE  COTTAGE  OF  THE 

WIDOW  MOHAN 

NIGHT  and  Silence  are  a  stern  test  of 
wisdom.  For  years,  the  fun  loving, 
chattersome  Blenkinsop  had  been  their 
enemy  and  was  not  yet  at  peace  with  them. 
But  Night  and  Silence  had  other  enemies 
in  the  village — ancient  and  inconsolable 
enemies,  it  must  be  said.  They  were  the 
cocks  of  Bingville.  Every  morning  they 
fell  to  and  drove  Night  and  Silence  out  of 
the  place  and  who  shall  say  that  they  did 
not  save  it  from  being  hopelessly  over 
whelmed.  Day  was  their  victory  and  they 
knew  how  to  achieve  it.  Noise  was  the 
thing  most  needed.  So  they  roused  the 
people  and  called  up  uie  lights  and  set  the 
griddles  rattling.  The  great,  white  cock 
163 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

that  roosted  near  the  window  in  the  Widow 
Moran's  hen-house  watched  for  the  first 
sign  of  weakness  in  the  enemy.  When  it 
came,  he  sent  forth  a  bolt  of  sound  that 
tumbled  Silence  from  his  throne  and  shook 
the  foundations  of  the  great  dome  of  Night. 
It  rang  over  the  housetops  and  through 
every  street  and  alley  in  the  village.  That 
started  the  battle.  Silence  tried  in  vain 
to  recover  his  seat.  In  a  moment,  every 
cock  in  Bingville  was  hurling  bombs  at 
him.  Immediately,  Darkness  began  to 
grow  pale  with  fright.  Seeing  the  fate  of 
his  ally,  he  broke  camp  and  fled  westward. 
Soon  the  field  was  clear  and  every  proud 
cock  surveyed  the  victory  with  a  solemn 
sense  of  large  accomplishment. 

The  loud  victorious  trumpets  sounding 
in  the  garden  near  the  window  of  the 
Shepherd  awoke  him  that  Christmas 
morning.  The  dawn  light  was  on  the 
windows. 

" Merry  Christmas!'*  said  the  little 
164 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

round  nickel  clock  in  a  cheerful  tone.    "  It 's 
time  to  get  up!" 

"Is  it  morning?"  the  Shepherd  asked 
drowsily,  as  he  rubbed  his  eyes. 

''Sure  it's  morning!"  the  little  clock 
answered.  "That  lazy  old  sun  is  late 
again.  He  ought  to  be  up  and  at  work. 
He's  like  a  dishonest  hired  man." 

"He's  apt  to  be  slow  on  Christmas 
morning,"  said  the  Shepherd. 

"Then  people  blame  me  and  say  I'm  too 
fast,"  the  little  clock  went  on.  "They 
don't  know  what  an  old  shirk  the  sun  can 
be.  I've  been  watching  him  for  years  and 
have  never  gone  to  sleep  at  my  post." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  the  little  clock 
went  on:  "Hello!  The  old  night  is  get 
ting  a  move  on  it.  The  cocks  are  scaring 
it  away.  Santa  Glaus  has  been  here.  He 
brought  ever  so  many  things.  The  mid 
night  train  stopped." 

"I  winder  who  came,"  said  the  Shep 
herd. 

165 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I  guess  it  was  the  Bings,"  the  clock 
answered. 

Just  then  it  struck  seven. 

''There,  I  guess  that's  about  the  end  of 
it,"  said  the  little  clock. 

"Of  what?"  the  Shepherd  asked. 

"Of  the  nineteen  hundred  and  eighteen1 
years.  You  know  seven  is  the  favored 
number  in  sacred  history.  I'm  sure  the 
baby  would  have  been  born  at  seven.  My 
goodness!  There's  a  lot  of  ticking  in  all 
that  time.  I've  been  going  only  twelve 
years  and  I'm  nearly  worn  out.  Some 
young  clock  will  have  to  take  my  job  before 
long." 

These  reflections  of  the  little  clock  were 
suddenly  interrupted.  The  Shepherd's 
mother  entered  with  a  merry  greeting  and 
turned  on  the  lights.  There  were  many 
bundles  lying  about.  She  came  and  kissed 
her  son  and  began  to  build  a  fire  in  the 
little  stove. 

"This '11  be  the  merriest  Christmas  in 
166 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

yer  life,  laddie  boy,"  she  said,  as  she  lit 
the  kindlings.  "A  great  doctor  has  come 
up  with  the  Bings  to  see  ye.  He  says  he  '11 
have  ye  out-o  '-doors  in  a  little  while. ' ' 

* '  Ho,  ho !  That  looks  like  the  war  was 
nearly  over,"  said  Mr.  Bloggs. 

Mrs.  Moran  did  not  hear  the  remark  of 
the  little  tin  soldier  so  she  rattled  on : 

1  'I  went  over  to  the  station  to  meet  'em 
last  night.  Mr.  Blenkinsop  has  brought  us 
a  fine  turkey.  We'll  have  a  gran'  dinner — 
sure  we  will — an'  I  axed  Mr.  Blenkinsop 
to  come  an'  eat  with  us." 

Mrs.  Moran  opened  the  gifts  and  spread 
them  on  the  bed.  There  were  books  and 
paints  and  brushes  and  clothing  and  silver 
articles  and  needle-work  and  a  phonograph 
and  a  check  from  Mr.  Bing. 

The  little  cottage  had  never  seen  a  day 
so  full  of  happiness.  It  rang  with  talk 
and  merry  laughter  and  the  music  of  the 
phonograph.  Mr.  Blenkinsop  had  come  in 
his  best  mood  and  apparel  with  the  dog 
167 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

Christmas.  He  helped  Mrs.  Moran  to  set 
the  table  in  the  Shepherd's  room  and 
brought  up  the  platter  with  the  big  brown 
turkey  on  it,  surrounded  by  sweet  potatoes, 
all  just  out  of  the  oven.  Mrs.  Moran  fol 
lowed  with  the  jelly  and  the  creamed 
onions  and  the  steaming  coffee  pot  and  new 
celery.  The  dog  Christmas  growled  and 
ran  under  the  bed  when  he  saw  his  master 
coming  with  that  unfamiliar  burden. 

"He's  never  seen  a  Christmas  dinner 
before.  I  don't  wonder  he's  kind  o'  scairt  I 
I  ain't  seen  one  in  so  long,  I'm  scairt  my 
self,"  said  Hiram  Blenkinsop  as  they  sat 
down  at  the  table. 

"What's  scairin'  ye,  man?"  said  the 
widow. 

"  'Fraid  I'll  wake  up  an'  find  myself 
dreamin',"  Mr..  Blenkinsop  answered. 

"Nobody  ever  found  himself  dreamin' 
at  my  table,"  said  Mrs.  Moran.  "Grab 
the  carvin'  knife  an'  go  to  wurruk,  man." 

"I  ain't  eggzac'ly  used  to  this  kind  of 
168 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

a  job,  but  if  you'll  look  out  o'  the  winder, 
I'll  have  it  chopped  an'  split  an'  corded 
in  a  minute,"  said  Mr.  Blenkinsop. 

He  got  along  very  well  with  his  task. 
When  they  began  eating  he  remarked, 
"I've  been  lookin'  at  that  pictur'  of  a 
girl  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  Brings  the 
water  to  my  eyes,  it's  so  kind  o'  life  like 
and  nat'ral.  It's  an  A  number  one  pictur' 
— no  mistake." 

He  pointed  at  a  large  painting  on  the 
wall. 

"It's  Pauline!"  said  the  Shepherd. 

"Sure  she's  one  o'  the  saints  o'  God!" 
the  widow  exclaimed.  "She's  started  a 
school  for  the  children  o'  them  Eytalians 
an'  Poles.  She's  tryin'  to  make  'em  good 
Americans." 

"I'll  never  forget  that  night,"  Mr.  Blen 
kinsop  remarked. 

"If  ye  don't  fergit  it,  I'll  never  mend 
another  hole  in  yer  pants,"  the  widow  an 
swered. 

169 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"I've  never  blabbed  a  word  about  it  to 
any  one  but  Mr.  Singleton." 

"Keep  that  in  yer  soul,  man.  It's  yer 
ticket  to  Paradise,"  said  the  widow. 

"She  goes  every  day  to  teach  the  Poles 
and  Italians,  but  I  have  her  here  with  me 
always,"  the  Shepherd  remarked.  "I'm 
glad  when  the  morning  comes  so  that  I 
can  see  her  again." 

"God  bless  the  child!  We  was  sorry  to 
lose  her  but  we  have  the  pictur'  an'  the 
look  o'  her  with  the  love  o'  God  in  her 
face,"  said  the  Widow  Moran. 

"Now  light  yer  pipe  and  take  yer  com 
fort,  man,"  said  the  hospitable  widow, 
after  the  dishes  were  cleared  away.  * '  Sure 
it's  more  like  Christmas  to  see  a  man  an'  a 
pipe  in  the  house.  Heavens,  no!  A  man 
in  the  kitchen  is  worse  than  a  hole  in  yer 
petticoat." 

So  Mr.  Blenkinsop  sat  with  the  Shep 
herd  while  the  widow  went  about  her 
work.  With  his  rumpled  hair,  clean 
170 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

shaven  face,  long  nose  and  prominent  ears, 
he  was  not  a  handsome  man. 

"This  is  the  top  notch  an'  no  mistake," 
he  remarked  as  he  lighted  his  pipe. 
"Blenkinsop  is  happy.  He  feels  like  his 
Old  Self.  He  has  no  fault  to  find  with  any 
thing  or  anybody. ' ' 

Mr.  Blenkinsop  delivered  this  report  on 
the  state  of  his  feelings  with  a  serious  look 
in  his  gray  eyes. 

"It  kind  o'  reminds  me  o'  the  time  when 
I  used  to  hang  up  my  stockin'  an'  look 
for  the  reindeer  tracks  in  the  snow  on 
Christmas  mornin',"  he  went  on.  "Since 
then,  my  ol'  socks  have  been  full  o'  pain 
an'  trouble  every  Christmas." 

"Those  I  knit  for  ye  left  here  full  of 
good  wishes,"  said  the  Shepherd. 

"Say,  when  I  put  'em  on  this  mornin' 
with  the  b'iled  shirt  an'  the  suit  that  Mr. 
Bing  sent  me,  my  Old  Self  came  an*  asked 
me  where  I  was  goin',  an'  when  I  said  I 
was  goin'  to  spen'  Christmas  with  a  re- 
171 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

spectable  fam'ly,  he  said,  'I  guess  I'll  go 
with  ye/  so  here  we  be." 

"The  Old  Selves  of  the  village  have  all 
been  kicked  out-of-doors,"  said  the  Shep 
herd.  "The  other  day  you  told  me  about 
the  trouble  you  had  had  with  yours.  That 
night,  all  the  Old  Selves  of  Bingville  got 
together  down  in  the  garden  and  talked 
and  talked  about  their  relatives  so  I 
couldn't  sleep.  It  was  a  kind  of  Selfland. 
I  told  Judge  Crooker  about  it  and  he  said 
that  that  was  exactly  what  was  going  on 
in  the  Town  Hall  the  other  night  at  the 
public  meeting." 

"The  folks  are  drunk — as  drunk  as  I 
was  in  Hazelmead  last  May,"  said  Mr. 
Blenkinsop.  "They  have  been  drunk  with 
gold  and  pleasure " 

"The  fruit  of  the  vine  of  plenty,"  said 
Judge  Crooker,  who  had  just  come  up  the 
stairs.  * '  Merry  Christmas ! "  he  exclaimed 
as  he  shook  hands.  "Mr.  Blenkinsop,  yon 
look  as  if  you  were  enjoying  yourself." 
172 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"An'  why  not  when  yer  Self  has  been 
away  an'  just  got  back?" 

"And  you've  killed  the  fatted  turkey," 
said  the  Judge,  as  he  took  out  his  silver 
snuff  box.  "One  by  one,  the  prodigals  are 
returning. ' ' 

They  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs  and 
the  merry  voice  of  the  Widow  Moran.  In 
a  moment,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bing  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bing,  I  want  to  make  you 
acquainted  with  my  very  dear  friend, 
Robert  Moran,"  said  Judge  Crooker. 

There  were  tears  in  the  Shepherd's  eyes 
as  Mrs.  Bing  stooped  and  kissed  him.  He 
looked  up  at  the  mill  owner  as  the  latter 
took  his  hand. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mr. 
Bing. 

"Is  this — is  this  Mr.  J.  Patterson 
Bing?"  the  Shepherd  asked,  his  eyes  wide 
uith  astonishment. 

"Yes,  and  it  is  my  fault  that  you  do 
173 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

not  know  me  better.    I  want  to  be  your 
friend. ' ' 

The  Shepherd  put  his  handkerchief  over 
his  eyes.  His  voice  trembled  when  he 
said:  "You  have  been  very  kind  to 
us." 

"But  I'm  really  hoping  to  do  something 
for  you,"  Mr.  Bing  assured  him.  "I've 
brought  a  great  surgeon  from  New  York 
who  thinks  he  can  help  you.  He  will  be 
over  to  see  you  in  the  morning." 

They  had  a  half -hour's  visit  with  the 
little  Shepherd.  Mr.  Bing,  who  was  a 
judge  of  good  pictures,  said  that  the  boy's 
work  showed  great  promise  and  that  his 
picture  of  the  mother  and  child  would 
bring  a  good  price  if  he  cared  to  sell  it. 
When  they  arose  to  go,  Mr.  Blenkinsop 
thanked  the  mill  owner  for  his  Christmas 
suit. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Mr.  Bing. 

"Well,  it  mentions  itself  purty  middlin* 
often,"  Mr.  Blenkinsop  laughed. 
174 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for 
you?"  the  former  asked. 

"Well,  sir,  to  tell  ye  the  dead  hones' 
truth,  I've  got  a  new  ambition,"  said  Mr. 
Blenkinsop.  "I've  thought  of  it  nights  a 
good  deal.  I'd  like  to  be  sextunt  o9  the 
church  an'  ring  that  ol'  bell." 

"We'll  see  what  can  be  done  about  it," 
Mr.  Bing  answered  with  a  laugh,  as  they 
went  down-stairs  with  Judge  Crooker,  fol 
lowed  by  the  dog  Christmas,  who  scam 
pered  around  them  on  the  street  with  a 
merry  growl  of  challenge,  as  if  the  spirit 
of  the  day  were  in  him. 

"What  is  it  that  makes  the  boy  so  ap 
pealing?"  Mr.  Bing  asked  of  the  Judge. 

"He  has  a  wonderful  personality,"  Mrs. 
Bing  remarked. 

"Yes,  he  has  that.  But  the  thing  that 
underlies  and  shines  through  it  is  his  great 
attraction." 

"What  do  you  call  it?"  Mrs.  Bing  asked. 

"A  clean  and  noble  spirit!  Is  there  any, 
175 


THE  PRODIGAL  VILLAGE 

other  thing  in  this  world  that,  in  itself,  is 
really  worth  having  ? ' ' 

"Compared  with  him,  I  recognize  that 
I  am  very  poor  indeed,"  said  J.  Patterson 
Bing. 

"You  are  what  I  would  call  a  promising 
young  man,"  the  Judge  answered.  "If 
you  don't  get  discouraged,  you're  going 
to  amount  to  something.  I  am  glad  be 
cause  you  are,  in  a  sense,  the  father  of  the 
great  family  of  Bingville." 


THE  END 


STRATFORD  8.  GREEN 

BOOKSELLERS 
642-644   SO.  MAIN   ST. 


